


The World Forgetting By The World Forgot

by Meowbowwow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Allomancy, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blowjobs, M/M, NaNoWriMo, butt stuff, just read it it took me hella time to write, some people apart from john and sherlock die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 17:39:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 84,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson goes to sleep next to his wife Mary and wakes up in the middle of Afghanistan, wounded and bleeding. Was his married life a waking dream or is his life with Sherlock Holmes a fictional reality?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written by two people - one who knew how wars worked and the other who couldn't stand them.

He would often smile when people said things like “God created the Universe in 7 days”. He was certainly a creative genius, and seldom a modest one, but even he could not manage something like that in such a short a span of time. No, the Earth and its inhabitants were no divine creations. He had merely stumbled upon them somewhere during his travels in the vastness of the cosmos. And he loved them quite dearly. They reminded him of his own people as they were before The Great War.

In his early days, he had resisted being called by that title. It had irked him for there was little divine about him. Yes, he did have what the simple folk of Earth called “divine powers”. He could do many things humans could never do. He could bend minerals and metals to his will, he could subtly influence the way people felt and thought about things. However, possibly his greatest in the eyes of his beloved humans was his mysterious ability to appear at seemingly random points in their histories.

They could never quite make the connection between his visits. But they did remember how his subtle influence helped shape their histories into the state that they were. He was there at Thermopylae, helping Leonidas humble the God-King. He was on the Greek ships at Salamis, a few days later, sealing the fate of the Persian aggressors. He helped the Roman Legions in their various great feats of conquest and, when he saw their motives fall from grace and nobility, he brought about their downfall with the Gothic armies of Odoacer. He aided Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar in his battle to keep the violent Moslem invaders out of Spain. He rode with Simon Bolivar and, although he was not proud of it, he suggested the notion of the _Decreto de Guerra a Muerte_. He helped Nobunaga and Hideyoshi unify Japan and make a world power out of it. He helped Raja Raja Chola and his son, Rajendra Chola, expand the Chola Empire into Sri Lanka, northern India and parts of South East Asia.

However, his assistance was not restricted to militaristic conquests. He helped Isaac Newton figure out the intricacies of calculus to prove his theory of gravity. He prodded Archimedes in the right direction by urging him to look at how the water in his bath rose upon entering it (although none of the citizens of Syracuse whose memory would forever be scarred by the image of a naked Archimedes running amok in the open streets could blame him for it). He fondly remembered discussing mathematics and astronomy with great Indian scientists like Aryabhata and Bhaskara I. He also worked with the team of scientists working on the Manhattan Project, although like most of his militaristic conquests, he was not boastful of this particular achievement.

But he never saw himself as a messiah or saviour or _God_ during any of these adventures. However, after so many eons of seeing and interacting with humans, he realised that the best word in their lexicon for one such as him was, probably, “God”.

He had made peace with Godhood many centuries ago now. He had assumed a more passive role than he had earlier. He did not travel as much now as he did in the past. He was growing old, though his body belied his age. “Age is not a bodily parameter; it is more a gauge of one’s mental activity.” He sometimes wondered where and how humans could come up with such deep and thoughtful statements and yet be such a warring and belligerent lot at the same time.

He could not travel as freely now as he did in the past, for it would result in catastrophic consequences and he had interfered actively in human history to a very large extent already. Now, he could only visit Earth at certain locations and certain times. This would have been a problem that would have driven his younger, more adventurous self, mad. However, his desire to actively interact with humans had also faded with age. The more he saw their interactions from afar, the more he realised that his interference in their matters had done more harm than good. They were a petulant people, constantly warring, killing and bickering with one another. It seemed that they would actively ignore a peaceful solution to a problem and would often push each other to war and murder.

 

So now, he simply looked out for the few humans who caught his attention by virtue of their intent and the morality of their actions. He was a tired old man now, simply looking for some companionship. When he was with these friends, he could almost be that adventurous young man who fought all those battles and debated science, art and philosophy with the greats of human history. It almost broke him when the time to bid his friends goodbye came around. Yet he kept going on, trusting humans to produce at least a few people who would live up to his expectations. It was on one of these adventures that he met his wife.

His family was hardly what one would call happy. The burden of expectation came with his lifestyle and his “powers”, one would assume. Although he tried his best to remain with his wife and son as long as he could, wanderlust would get hold of him every now and then and he would wander away. Sometimes these excursions would last for months or even years. Therefore, he was not surprised to see his teenaged boy grow up to dislike and even despise him more than the average teenager would his father. He often wished he could change himself to be better adapted to family life, but that was simply too much of a change for him. “Besides,” he caught himself thinking once, “My son has grown up to be a fine enough young man without any help from me. My wife would probably not have been able to do as good a job with him if I had been around to distract her.”

 

***

 

_“Meet me at the top of the Northern turret tonight after dinner.”_

That was all the note said. He knew the writing. The way the words scrawled lazily across the paper. The paper itself was crumpled and torn off the bottom of a larger page. “Probably ripped off of another page of his useless ‘ideas’,” thought the young man. “After all, that is all we are worth to him.”

He was fairly tall for his age, with a broad forehead and keen and discerning brown eyes. His features marked him as nothing short of royalty. That would be the lower end of the spectrum, in truth. He was far more than simple royalty. He had studied and trained long and hard to step into the shoes of his father, the wandering simpleton who wrote this note. His studies were nearing their end and he longed for the day when he could convince his mother to let him rule in his stead. That would be difficult for him for he was used to easily manipulating people and bending them to his will. However, he had sworn to both his parents that he would not use his powers on them. He knew that his father would immediately sense his touch on his feelings. His mother was a different deal altogether. He did not even have to try and test if she could feel his touch or not, she was just that good with everything that she did. He dared not test her.

Dinner was awkward, as usual. He was always irritated by his father’s presence because it was far outweighed by his absence in his life. However, over the past few months, even his father’s absence did not give him any relief from this irritation for he had brought back with him, from one of his journeys, another young boy. This boy looked very much like his father. He had the same sharp chin, smart face and piercing eyes. He could no longer stand his father’s presence more than he absolutely had to.  
 _  
“Is it not bad enough that he constantly runs off on seemingly random journeys all alone, returning after many weeks and months have passed leaving me and Mum to deal with our lives on our own? Does he now have to add insult to injury by bringing home misbegotten children!”_ he thought to himself the first night this new ‘brother’ of his was introduced to him.

He almost considered ignoring his father’s request. He saw the same tired and bored look that he’d often seen just before he would scuttle off on another ‘adventure’, as his father would have them called. He got up from his table and went off into his room to read his books and make notes on his studies of the human psyche. He read his books for nearly an hour before he felt that he would tempt the wrath of his mother if he did not go and meet his father. So, grudgingly, he trudged towards the Northern turret of the castle.

He saw that his father was waiting there, looking out into the night sky towards the moon. He seemed to be thinking about something rather painful. For a fleeting moment, upon seeing his father all alone with his guards down, he almost felt sorry for him. That moment soon passed for his father saw him and turned towards him, smiling a brilliant smile. He smiled back, though he could feel the smile fade away before it reached his eyes.

“Ah, son!!! Come on over. Stand here and look out into the night. Isn’t it just wonderful?” said his father. “Yes, I suppose. What is it that you want, father?” he asked testily, “I was busy studying, you know.” The smile faded from his father’s face.  
  
“I’m leaving, son,” his father said solemnly. He was a bit taken aback by the fact that his father chose to tell him about his ‘adventure’ this time.  
“Why bother telling me about it, Sir? It makes no difference either way.”

“I’m old, my dear boy,” his father sighed, “I’m getting far too old to run things here, it would seem. My association with this world has brought me nothing but pain and drudgery. I have lived longer than you can possibly imagine; longer than sometimes even I can remember. I have fought battles that I felt would surely lead to a happier, more stable world. I have given ideas and inspiration to some of the greatest minds in history. See if you can find my fingerprints in those stories and reports you read in your history books. But now it is just too much for me. I cannot continue anymore. I have seen you grow. Although your mother may disagree with me on this but I think you are old enough to step into my shoes.”

Dumbfounded, all he could do was just stare into the tired but honest eyes that stared warmly back into his own. After about an eternity of pondering over the import of those words he spluttered, “What do you mean father? Are you _leaving_?” The old eyes smiled at him. “Yes my dear boy. This is it. I am leaving for good now, I should think. No one, not even I, can truly judge the flow of time and where it would lead us. But as of now, it seems that this is our final farewell.”

The young man just stared blankly at his father. All his life he despised this man and longed to be in his shoes, governing in his stead. And now that it was finally happening he almost wished that it would stop. He reached out for his father’s hand with his own. “I just do not know what to say, father. I know that nothing I say can stop you. I have grown up waiting to inherit your position after you, but I had never truly imagined ever actually doing it. Let alone in such a fashion. Have you told mother and my brother?” His father nodded.

“As they say, I saved the best for the last,” he said. “You will make a good ruler, son. I can see it in you. Make peace with your position in the world and the rest shall come almost naturally. And if in doubt, you will always have your mother and brother to help you.”

Those words stung him. He was not greedy for power, he knew it in his heart of hearts. He wanted to replace his father simply because he was absent so frequently. But the notion of having to share his power with his baseborn brother was just too much. He must have lost control of his emotions and given away his thoughts for his father soon said, “Yes, my child. You are and always will be the elder of the two. You are, in fact, better suited to rule. But that does not mean that he is utterly useless. He has his virtues and time will tell you how you can use him to aid your own rule. You mother has been training him in this capacity since the day he arrived. She and you together can make the best possible use of him. He is your brother, do not ever forget that.” He felt ashamed for losing control and letting his father read his thoughts off of his emotions.

“Yes Sir,” he said, looking down.

“Come come, my dear boy. Why the long face? Who knows, maybe all that is happening may turn out to be better than one would expect,” said his father in a soft and reassuring voice.

“However, before I leave, there is a thing of grave importance that I must reveal. Do not underestimate your brother. I know he is too small right now to be estimated in any way but soon, a time would come when you would despise him for his insolence, when every word he utters would remind you of everything you hated in your father, hated in me. But, you two must stay together and work together for this regime to succeed because if I have read the stars correctly, and I always have, then your brother would herald your demise and you would do the same unto him. But I must repeat this – you must keep him with you and you two have to work together.”

That was the last thing his father ever said to him. He was left standing, trying to understand the full gravity of his current situation whilst his father opened the door to the terrace of the Northern turret and closed it behind him. That was the last of that smiling, happy and contented face that Mycroft ever saw.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now, who is this John Watson?

It was a usual day at work, just the way John liked it. The meetings were done with, sales reports mailed; he was home in time to catch up on some TV while Mary cleared the dinner table. As he let the white noise fill the air from a new show was being aired at that hour, she gently kissed him goodnight and retired to bed. This had been his routine for the past few years and the addition of Mary had just been as welcome as anything else. Nothing happened to John Watson and that’s the way he liked it. 

John went through his daily night time rituals – checking the doors, then the windows, a walk through the entire house and then his bedroom. He did it twice, as was his habit. It was a routine he had fallen into over 4 years of their marriage and now, it was a part of him. Mary was already asleep, her hair spread out behind her.

He thought about all these things every night - about how beautiful she was, how lucky he was to have her and how perfect everything was between them. And since tonight was no exception, he went through the same motions in his head and gently slid under the duvet, putting his arms around her, his nose in her hair and the smell of green apples all around him.

As if waiting to start like a movie in his mind, the minute his head hit the pillow, the dreams began. There was golden dust all around them, so much so that he could feel the sand inside his lungs, in his throat, scratching. Someone was bleeding. He knew that it was him. His shoulder was hurting but not enough for him to take notice, to reach out and feel. He was crouching behind a blasted hut and the last thing he remembered before he fell down was the glint of some utensils in his eyes.

Next thing he knew, he was slumped down on the golden sands of Afghanistan, bullets raining around him like fireworks on New Year’s Eve, and he felt home. There were strange images of a woman, a name in his head like a long forgotten dream. He remembered something about drifting off while he waited to be shot, to be blasted out of his bones. The daydream was a strange one, it was almost real but that was not the strangest thing about it. He dreamt of dreaming, dreaming this, his reality. How absurd! He knew he was in Afghanistan, he had been for a long time now. He knew he was John Watson. He was an army doctor. He knew he was going to die and he whispered, “God, please let me live” for the hundredth time. He knew all these things because, well, why wouldn’t he? This was his life, wasn’t it? Images from his childhood came back in fragments and he was sure that this was death talking, playing tricks with his mind. He knew that now he was going to die.

And yet, he felt no emotion, no pain at being so close to his death and so away from his love, his city, London. He felt like a third person, a different person, watching someone else’s life unfold on a monitor in front of him. His head was still dizzy and his body hurt at various places but his shoulder was the worst of them all. He tried to get up, to get some cover, to scream but the sand in his throat wanted to make its presence known. And well, who would hear him screaming amidst all the screams already in the air?

He had known he might never return from Afghanistan. Then why was this such a big deal? And why wasn’t it as big a deal as it should be? He was dying, almost gone, wisplike breaths fluttering in his lungs. Why was he still trying to live?

After his face hit the sand and just before he passed out, a strange thought lodged itself behind his lids – the sand smelled like green apples.

 

***

 

Coming back to London was not as exciting as he would have hoped. It was more expensive than he remembered it to be. And money was tight for John Watson. He could barely manage some coffee in the morning and he usually got it when he took a walk around the park, drinking in the familiar lack of noise along with his favourite blend, just the sound of life in London. People milling about, unaware of anything, movies and shows being awaited, the occasional sighting of a celebrity, dogs, people, traffic, pavements, people, people, people.

And yet, the feeling that had become familiar to him, the feeling of not actually seeing all this, never faded. This wasn’t a dream, he had made sure of that. But it still felt unreal, strangely so, like he had walked straight into a book. The trees seemed too perfect, the green was just the right shade, the wind on his face too soft, the sound of his stick hitting the pavement resounding. He was sure if he touched the grass crunching merrily under his feet, the colour would come off the blades and stick to his hands and everything would be black and white underneath. He didn’t dwell on it, he was still in a mental rehab of sorts. Afghanistan had a tendency to do that to people.

His nights were worse but the mornings weren’t that good either. The only solace was his walk, his routine, always the same in the past two months or so. He would get his coffee, take the longer route, sit on a bench when he got tired, read the papers and look for an apartment.

Somehow, in his daily schedules, food never seemed to feature anywhere. There were days when he would go on without it. And to think that when he was in Afghanistan, he had wanted nothing but to sit with a huge plate of jammie dodgers and drink as many cups of tea as he liked. He loved to eat or rather, had loved to eat before Afghanistan. Somehow, that love and passion for food was gone. It was a miracle if he could finish his single green apple a day, and those were good days indeed, at least for his conscience.

However, today was different. Today was not a day when John Watson could enjoy his routine walk quietly.

He saw Mike Stamford before Mike saw him. And he increased his pace but damn his leg, he couldn’t rush past the man fast enough. Mike called for him twice before John mustered up some patience, rearranged his features to resemble a surprised smile and turned around to greet his friend as cordially as he could. As if on impulse, his eyes scanned the neighbourhood and Mike came forward to talk to him, extremely happy on seeing his old friend and a bit awkward as he, mimicking John, looked at the opposite bench as well.

John didn’t hate Mike, they had been decent friends in the past. But over the years, they had lost touch and after the debacle at Afghanistan, he had not kept in touch with anyone from his past life. That’s what it was to him now, pre and post war life of John Watson. He wasn’t ashamed of what had happened there, no he wasn’t. He just wasn’t ready to talk to people so soon, didn’t want to make friends, be invited to dinner parties and go through all that charade of sitting with people who knew nothing about him and still managed to make small talk and pass judgment. _Poor John... John, does your leg hurt? It’s going to be alright. Don’t think about it. You should start a new life. Do you want me to fix you up with someone? Aren’t you going to have some more noodles? Wine? Well, you never drank so much before…_

But the meeting with Mike didn’t prove to be so useless, after all. After the initial discomfort and awkwardness that precedes any meeting where one person wants to get away as quickly as possible and the other is too cheery for the comfort of present times, the rest went smoothly enough. One of John’s biggest problems – staying in that abominable but seriously overpriced hotel room – was solved, thanks to Mike. He mentioned Sherlock Holmes, some guy (“ _he’s a bit… you’ll see_ ”) who worked in Mike’s lab.

Well, Sherlock didn’t exactly work there but he did visit often enough to be courteous to Mike as Mike was to him. This particular point tickled Mike a lot, the fact that Sherlock Holmes was polite and nice to him. The reason for this was revealed to him soon enough when the very same day, he met Sherlock Holmes.

 

***

 

Sherlock had one place where the world did not matter to him, where injustices and social niceties were not of any import, where he could be himself and not be judged by anyone. That place was the lab at St. Bart’s. And although Molly Hooper could be annoying at times, but, and he would never express it out loud, she was the closest thing he had to a friend. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand the cause of her attraction towards him. He was often rude to her and there had been times when he was sure he had made her cry. Why? He wasn’t exactly clear about that one bit. He would be lying about his own character if he said that he was mean towards her for her own good, to distance her from him but that wasn’t the reason. It was just that… he wasn’t used to kindness or concern and it irked his very nerves to be on the receiving end of so much warmth, especially when it was undeserved.

The day was going as planned and Molly Hooper had not made an appearance so far. He wasn’t as pleased about that fact as he would have wanted. He’d just found something exceptional in the dead body in the morgue and there was no one around to share his brilliance and to applaud him on his genius. And then, in walked Mike Stamford with his new roommate.

Sherlock was curious about the new man’s state but he couldn’t deny that John Watson was extremely attractive, with his military stance and his psychosomatic limp. _Especially with the psychosomatic limp,_ his brain supplied. But Sherlock Holmes did not care about attractiveness and no matter how exceptionally alluring someone’s mental damage seemed to be, he was not a person who would go in with the one-liners. Well, but he did.

 

***

 

At the end of their first meeting, which stretched across a couple of days, a lot of things happened in quick succession. He almost died and that was the good part, exhilarating, cathartic even. And, well… he sort of got hit on but not really. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be hit on but he knew that he wanted them to be flatmates. They were meant to be… _flatmates_. No one he knew was this considerate towards his eccentricities and well… no, he wasn’t being hit on. Yes, that was decided then. Not being hit on. Friends. Not gay. Okay. Cool.

Also, John Watson shot the murderer and _almost_ escaped in time. They went to dinner and all the time, Sherlock couldn’t shake this out of place feeling about the guy. He liked him, sure, but there was something broken and lost about him. It certainly made him more attractive but that wasn’t it. It was the way John continuously looked over his shoulder, he was more watchful than Sherlock but certainly not as observant.

“No one’s following us.” Sherlock had to mutter.

“Uh… yeah, I know.” John managed, caught in the act.

“You seem surprised.”  
“I am. I didn’t know I was doing that until you just mentioned it.”

 

***

 

John’s first night in his new flat was exceptional. Not only had the day been overly exciting for his taste but somewhere, at the back of his mind, he now knew why he had been so restless all these past months. His hands reached to find the remote and he flicked the TV on, drowning the noise from the streets out of his mind and enjoying the blissful white noise it provided. This seemed familiar. Sherlock Holmes was probably used to such excitement because he sounded busy in the kitchen, the clinking sounds were the sounds of home as well. Yes, he was going to be happy in this flat.

He tried to read the papers but for some reason, he just couldn’t settle his eyes on anything. He would catch himself reading the same line a multiple times while his mind drifted off to standing in the empty room, watching his flatmate bring the pill closer to his mouth. And he remembered the feeling in his heart, thudding loud enough to make him take a deep breath; his hands closing in on the familiar gun and a single shot ripping through the silence of the night. He had felt no fear. In fact, it had been a feeling of elation.  
  
Again, the feeling of watching this like someone else’s story entered his mind and he brushed it off, closing his eyes and immersing himself in that heady feeling of taking his stance and firing the shot. He knew the murderous cabbie would be down before the bullet even reached him. There was an effortless confidence in that knowledge and John remembered wanting to save that feeling in his stomach for as long as he lived.

There were only a few things John Watson was good at, only a few actual activities he really enjoyed but he’d never realised how much he’d enjoyed this little adventure. He also remembered the hearty meal he had at Angelo’s before anything had even happened, the mere excitement of the chase fuelling his desire to live, to move forward. He didn’t even remember when he’d put the gun in his pocket, it wasn’t a habit, but he had. Today, he had run more than he had moved in the past two months and the mere idea of it, punctuated by the ominous sounds of hissing and the newspaper swatting against the wooden table, made him utter a chuckle.

After giving up on trying to read about the numerous back alley murders, serial criminals roaming freely ( _not anymore, though,_ he whispered to himself) and the sparkling lives of movie stars, he decided that the night had been exciting enough without looking for stories like these.

He passed Sherlock on the way to his room and got no reply to his “Goodnight”. The man was a machine and would collapse any second now. John would probably find him on the dinner table, stewing in his own chemicals. He trudged up the stairs, finding no pain in his leg and flexed his left shoulder out of habit. His laptop sat on the table, next to his empty coffee mug which he had carefully stolen to his own room when Sherlock had unassumingly asked if he could store some mould samples in it.

The bed seemed softer than it was and moreover, John was too darn tired to care about anything right now. He tossed and turned for a couple of times, a little apprehensive about going to sleep. He didn’t want the best day in his life in quite a while to be ruined by weird dreams that he didn’t remember when he got up. It was a bit embarrassing, to say the least.

He didn’t know when he fell asleep but he sure as hell remembered when he woke up. It was exactly 3:34 am. And Sherlock Holmes’ usually steely gaze was turned on him, the lamp hurting his eyes as the man gripped his arm a little tighter and John tried to get up.

“Wha- What’s going on?” He croaked out, and a glass of water was passed to him carefully. That was when he realised that the bed was quite hard. No, he was on the floor and his back hurt pretty bad. Everything was muddled.

“Sherlock, what’s happening?” he repeated, taking huge gulps of water and trying to breathe through his nose. Sherlock helped him up on the bed, his hand still on his bicep. He looked more curious than scared but well, if John knew anything about the man in their short acquaintance, he knew more than to get frustrated at this.

When he raised his eyebrows, reluctant to repeat the question for the third time, Sherlock had the good sense to look a little guilty.

“Well, I couldn’t find your mug or anything to store some of my spare thumbs, so I figured you might have it in your room and I could…uh…borrow it for a while.” John massaged his temples with his fingers, signalling him to go on. His face felt cold, probably from the fast evaporating sweat.  
  
“When I entered the room, you were squirming in your bed and muttering something, I didn’t catch what you were muttering about but then, you started thrashing and I tried to wake you up. I called out your name a couple of times but before I could reach out to shake you out of your nightmare, you fell off the bed. And you still didn’t wake up. That…made me curious because you had fallen quite hard. So, I listened closely. But your words were far too inside your mouth for me to listen as to what you were saying. Then, I splashed some water on your face and well… you woke up.”

So, not only had John been embarrassed in front of his new flatmate but was currently nursing a hurt back and was still far from the truth about the content of his nightmares. The last bit irked him the most. He nodded at Sherlock, silently thanking him for the help and looked out of the window, feeling that the shadows were closing in on him. Somewhere between a couple of inhales and exhales, Sherlock’s hand left his bicep and he started leaving the room.

“John? If you need me, I’ll be in the kitchen.”  
“Okay.”  
“Would you like some tea?”  
“Uhm, yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”  
“Well, then I better get your mug.”


	3. Chapter 3

The black Aston Martin DBS felt slick and feisty under his feet and hands. He liked how the engine purred the way an older tiger would when ticking off a young challenger. It had all the confidence that comes from the knowledge of being at the top of one’s business; it was not angry or impatient to prove itself, it knew its full potential and just sat back purring softly and contently. He especially loved the balance between performance and luxury that this particular model offered. It reminded him of himself, in a way. This made it an even more fitting gift. Perhaps when he drove this car, the Lord would be reminded of his not-so-humble servant. Not that he needed to be reminded for lack of proximity, but he just liked to think that the Lord remembered him at all possible occasions and moments.

It had taken him some time to convince the designers to make some changes to the car’s design. He wanted to have small nooks or compartments in the car so that they could store Lucrum and Animus to use in any emergency. They had proven mildly intractable at first, but when he used his skills of Emotional Manipulations on them, they proved more than reasonable. It came very naturally to him after so many years of practise.

“But it would be sacrilege, Mr. Clay,” they had argued. “Do you not see how perfect the design is?”

He sighed heavily and replied, “Well yes, but you must understand who is going to use the car and under which conditions.” He gently Stormed their minds’ curiosity centres. He also Suppressed their pride and self-confidence a little bit.

“Well,” they paused to consider, “It would help if we knew who this person is, assuming it isn’t you.”

He smiled and said lightly, “Oh no, of course it isn’t me.” He then proceeded to Storm their curiosity even more, he also Stormed their sense of awe. “It is a _very_ important person. I couldn’t possibly tell you’re their name. But rest assured that they really like your car’s design and only wish to tweak it ever so slightly, as I said earlier. Just a few superficial changes to the interior,” He sensed a sense of doubt regarding their design popping up inside their minds. He quickly latched on to it, not letting go of the other feelings he was Storming and Suppressing. He Stormed up their doubt.

“Well,” the leader of the designers said, hesitantly, “I think that maybe in this one case we _may_ be able to make the exception.”

He smiled and Stormed their willingness towards change. “Please do. Think it over. Take your time, ladies and gentlemen.” In a matter of a few moments, he was shaking hands with them and going on to pay for the car.

The drive from Gaydon to London took less than an hour and a half in this new beast of a car. The more he saw of it and felt it, the more he saw a likeness between himself and the DBS. This would be just perfect. He was getting tired of driving the two of them around in the old Jaguar F-Type. It’s not that he had anything against the old girl, but her prime was behind her now. He would probably give it either to Janek Jìl or Ibrahim Slahi. Both those lieutenants of his had earned a healthy reward. He would have to decide carefully though, for snubbing either of their egos would result in a dangerous fallout. It also did not help that Jìl and Slahi despised each other.

Slahi was the strong arm. Having proven his mettle in various battles across time, he was the perfect man to train the legions of men blessed with the Will. He could teach them the various tricks of the trade to be used in battles and marshal them into a formidable force.

Jìl was in charge of a small army of people blessed with The Sight. Their task was to help find the Clear Crystal and report any changes within it. He had a suspicion that he was had a more important task in the Grand Plan, but was wise enough to not flaunt it about in presence of his superiors. Slahi, however, was his equal. That was probably the cause of all the problem.

He was a very busy man. He was, after all, the right and left hand man to the highest authority in this world. To say that his plate was full and running over was a gross understatement. He was the orchestrator of all of his master’s plans. He was the one who made sure every person was where he or she was intended to be; he was in charge of ensuring that the men who were supposed to live or die did so at just the right time; he was the one who made sure that the prayers that his Lord chose to answer did not go unanswered. In the words of those simple humans who served him and his master, he was like an expert puppet master who pulled all the right strings at all the right times to maintain the fragile balance of this world. He, however, liked to think of himself as a spider at the centre of the biggest and most complicated web that anyone could possibly fathom. He had to know precisely how each and every thread, no matter how big or small, vibrated. Not knowing this would mean that their whole world would collapse. And that would not go down well with his Lord.

One would naturally assume that he had not only the means, but also the motive to usurp his master and seize all the power for himself. Such thoughts never occurred to him because he knew of a much greater plan that was running in his Lord’s brain. A plan the dimensions of which were so gargantuan that he felt sure that not only was his puny intellect incapable of coming up with such an idea, but he would be left almost completely incapacitated under the weight of its execution. This, even after he was privy to all the possible details of the inner workings of the plan. No, he was not jealous or covetous of his Lord’s power. He had seen, first hand, how his master had struggled and grappled with each and every intricacy and minute detail of this Grand Plan for centuries now.  Neither of them could either come up with or fully execute an idea of this size without each other’s help and support.

His role in the workings and machinations of this world inhabited by humans grew almost exponentially over the past century or so, for as the final pieces of the Grand Plan began to align themselves, his master began to focus all of his thoughts into making sure everything went on perfectly. That meant that he had to look into the workings of this world. And he was not exactly fond of the way the humans behaved with one another. Their way of addressing problems was more often than not circumlocutory. The thing that annoyed him the most, however, was how they would ask for divine intervention at the drop of a hat. And obviously it would never be just one party seeking his help. He would then have to look at the claims and motives of both the parties and decide which of the two, if helped, would not cause a catastrophic collapse of the balance of the world.

He stopped at Russell Square Garden on his way back to the basilica. Sometimes he liked to stop by one of the many gardens and parks dotting the cityscape and sit down in the park to stop for a bit and think and organise himself. He strolled and bought himself a coffee from the café in the garden. He then made his way to a park bench and sat there sipping on his drink. He was thinking about a billion things at once; how to deal with the issue that Adler had brought to his attention; how to decide who got the Jaguar, Jìl or Slahi; how to present his gift to his Lord and many more things. At moments like this one, he preferred to just sit in an open area, breathe in some fresh air and See.

He had taken his Animus crystal out from the Jaguar’s glove compartment and he proceeded to See. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, almost as if meditating. He reached out mentally to the crystal in his fist. It was a fresh crystal; so he saw, in his mind’s eye, as if the energy held within were the mighty North Sea crashing against the dykes and walls of the Dutch coastline. He allowed a little bit of that mighty energy to surge into him.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that the setting had changed. He was in a coffee shop, somewhere in London. Open on the table in front of him was a brown file, with a big red “Top Secret” stamp on it. He opened the file and on the front page was a photo of a man with a tired expression, but sharp and intelligent face. It also contained a detailed military service record. Glancing over it, he seemed to have skipped the name, but the man seemed to have been an army doctor.

When he Saw, he flipped his conscious and sub-conscious minds so that he could tackle the problems facing him and ignore all that he was Seeing, thereby not being distracted by the visual centres of his brain. He had no need to actively See anymore, he had Jìl and his men for that now. After spending almost 15 minutes like this, he let go of the energy and snapped back into his own time and space. He had all his answers.

He drove back to their basilica quickly. He had this feeling that he ought to meet Jìl at the earliest, and not just because he had decided to give him the old Jaguar (he had after all used Jìl’s namesake to get the Aston Martin, so in a way it was a fitting tribute).

As he neared the building that held their basilica, the Shard, his mysterious sense of urgency of meeting Jìl kept increasing. He parked the Aston Martin in their private parking lot underneath the Shard and took the elevator up towards the highest floors. The last 15 floors of the Shard were their basilica. They were very cleverly disguised by the Lord himself to look like a tapering spire that could hold no offices or residences, but they held the centre of their entire operation.

He stepped out on the floor that was the chancel that was used as office space by Jìl and his men. Jìl looked no older than 40 years, though one’s looks belied one’s true age when one worked for the Lord in such a high capacity. He looked rather excited. Could it be that he had Seen that he would receive the Jaguar? Perhaps. But this excitement seemed different.

“Sire, the Clear Crystal, It has been found. There have been no changes so far but I have my best men monitoring its condition 24 hours a day, and their reports and my own observations suggest that it has not shown any change yet,” he replied, eyes hungry for appreciation.

“Thank you for reporting this news Jìl. You are an honest and hard-working man. You deserve a reward befitting your zeal and effort,” he said earnestly. However, flashes of some vision were coming back to him from somewhere deep in his subconscious mind.

“The work is its own reward, your Highness,” said Jìl, but he looked pleased with himself.

“That may be true, but every once in a while some actual rewards can be of help,” he said tossing the keys to the Jaguar F-Type to and awestruck Jìl. He knew that even he couldn’t find Jìl for the next few hours now.

He then rushed straight up to meet the Lord and report the findings to him. He was thinking about various other things on the way up to the Throne Chamber when it suddenly struck him. The feeling of anxiety that he was getting whilst reaching the Shard, the flashes of some vision from deep within his sub-conscious, they were all related. It was related to what he Saw back in the park.

The doors of the lift opened to show a humungous room with a vaulted ceiling with smooth and ribbed pillars alternating. The entire room was made out of Lucrum. It was a magnificent feat of engineering and architecture that could only have been done by the mind of the Lord himself. At the back the room was a massive cushioned throne that was 10 feet tall. The throne, like the room (and all of the Shard itself, in fact) was made entirely of Lucrum, such was the strength of the wondrous metal. The room was the size of 3 football fields, but it had only a handful of normal electric lights. The lustre of Lucrum was enough to light up the whole Throne Room. The section of the floor immediately between the lift doors and the throne itself was moving towards the throne, almost like a metallic conveyor belt. This was by the Lord’s Will. It was his master’s beckoning call to him.

Sitting on the throne, menacing yet awe-inspiring, was a man. He was not particularly tall, but his pointed chin, intelligent face and piercing Obsidian eyes marked him out as some force to be reckoned with. He was smiling a small, confident smile. A smile that was reserved for those rare occasions when his most trusted captain brought him good news. They did not need to exchange words to know the nature of the news or its content. They would just need to share a small look and they understood each other’s thoughts. However, considering the importance of the situation, he bowed his head.

“It is done, my Lord,” he said, subserviently.

“Does Mycroft suspect anything yet?” asked Moriarty, the Lord, God of the Earth.

“No. Not yet, it would seem,” said Sebastian Moran, his most loyal and faithful captain.

“Well done, Doctor John Watson,” said Moriarty with a smile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written by my co-author.


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks had passed without any issues, sleep and nightmares wise. The constant activity around the house helped because Sherlock never sat still, he kept pottering about in the kitchen, doing this and that. And so John started relaxing a bit and he was finally beginning to believe that the horrors of Afghanistan were well past him now. And eating, he was eating quite a lot now, especially compared to his recent diet. Sherlock was still averse to food (as usual) but in these couple of weeks, they had slowly settled around and domesticity had seeped itself into the very walls of 221B.

Mrs Hudson, their landlady and absolutely not their housekeeper, would occasionally come around with delightful stories from the surrounding neighbourhood or simply, more food.

“Do you want a slice of this cake, Sherlock?” John called out to the bundle of blue dressing gown slumped morosely on the couch, having shown no movement in the past 2 hours. In his initial few days in the flat, John had poked and prodded the object, checking for a pulse every now and then, just to be sure. But well, Sherlock was having a sulk because his apparent “helpful” nature had been severely squashed by DI Lestrade who had banned Sherlock from taking any crime scene artefacts, no matter how curious, back to his house.

As if possessed by a spirit, the lanky man got up suddenly and opened the fridge, taking out a few petri dishes and slumping down on the stool.

“There is no slide in there, just saying...” John peeked over his shoulder, earning a frustrated growl and tapped the side of his cheek with the hand holding the cake, inadvertently dropping a few crumbs on his beloved dressing down, to which Sherlock opened his mouth and in went a huge slice, silencing him for a few minutes, at least.

It had happened quite casually, actually. As he laughed at Sherlock’s angry face, taking deep gulps of the cake and almost choking, the act had seemed natural, almost. Between friends, shoving cake slices down each other’s throats, absolutely normal, nothing out of sorts. After Sherlock stole John’s tea and gulped the last bits of the cake down, he opened his mouth again, looking hilariously like a goldfish, one eye still on the microscope.

Well, that was when John had the awkwardness hit him. _No homo,_ his mind offered. The first time had been unconscious, perfunctory even. The man hadn’t touched a morsel in the past 2 days and every time John mentioned it, he got up and left, doing whatever it was that he did in his room. And now, he had been waiting for 10 seconds, mouth open, eyebrows knitted in concentration. Well, the other slice did reach him but John felt so uncomfortable by the awkwardness of the simple gesture that he left the room.

They would steal moments out of their own daily lives each day, little touches as cups of tea were passed, washing clothes separately and then together – all John – and then, Sherlock would lean on the counter, muttering silly and sometimes, absurd information about people around them. This was their routine too. John would just collect both their laundry, search the nooks and crannies of Sherlock’s room for a lone sock and then, he would leave to do the washing. Every Thursday. And when he dumped the clothes in and turned around, planning to catch up with his book, Sherlock would be there, following the movements of the clothes swirling and tumbling in the machine or simply, standing.

He didn’t look awkward standing without a book or a bag of nails under his coat and then, they would talk about cases from his website that Sherlock could solve without even leaving the house or scanning the crime scene. Sometimes, he would point out inaccuracies in John’s blog and John would shrug it off, and Sherlock would shake his head, laughing.

For Sherlock, it was appalling how much he laughed these days.

 

***

 

John checked his watch and to his surprise, the hour hand ticked just before 12. Time seemed to pass quicker, here in 221B. His love for routine had now been replaced by his love for making the flat habitable and well, making sure his flatmate didn’t die on him.

His bones creaked gratefully when his back hit the bed, the quiet sounds of the night not seeming stealthy or menacing, for once.

Like clockwork, the nightmares began and Sherlock quietly stole into his room, like he had done since John’s first nightmare in the flat. It was curious and some of the words he had heard had made him want to investigate. They weren’t things he would have expected to hear from anyone’s mouth, let alone John Watson. In fact, they weren’t words at all…

He opened the door as quietly as he could, not letting it slide open and giving it no time to creak. But it did, just a bit and Sherlock made a mental note to get this fixed. He couldn’t risk John waking up suddenly and finding his flatmate looking like a pervert or a serial killer. The serial killer bit he could deal with but the pervert part annoyed him. Couldn’t a man simply observe his flatmate whilst he slept (and had a nightmare) in private these days? Shrugging, he tied his swishing and overly noisy dressing gown and slunk in, unnoticed and eerily quiet.

John had slept soundly and sans nightmare after his first night in the flat. But Sherlock had been there to observe every day since then. He would sit for a few hours, occasionally falling asleep for a minute or so and then, he would leave, deciding his mould samples deserved attention tonight, after all. He did have a few readymade excuses prepared, in case John found him sneaking into his room or out of it. But tonight was one night when Sherlock’s weeks of patience were rewarded.

He was half asleep when a quiet sob woke him up. And just a word, a new one this time – _Mary_.

Who was Mary? College sweetheart? Childhood crush? _Mother?_ And then John sighed and sobbed again, but it wasn’t a sob of pain, more of…Sherlock didn’t know what it was. But yes, it was more of a gasp than a sob. Before he could get any more information, John started shaking and thrashing, the heels of his feet dragging across the bed sheet like he was trying to run, to escape whatever it was that chased him behind his lids. He still didn’t wake up and no word came out of him, but a single tear fell out from the corner of his eye, staining the pillow and Sherlock thought that this was probably the time to wake John up.

John left the world of dreams with a loud start, like he couldn’t breathe and he was gasping for air. The earlier ritual of asking questions and passing water was repeated but it was different this time. John was… _scared?_

“It’s alright…” Sherlock muttered as soothingly as he could. The man was positively shaking and still gasping like he had run for a hundred miles. And then John looked up at him, his lashes sticking together and eyes fearful. He was terrified out of his wits, and a shudder would run through him every now and then as he gulped glass after glass of water.

“It’s okay, you’re fine. It was just a bad dream.” Sherlock touched his arm. They had become friends in their short time together, and while the lack of any good cases had fuelled his want to find out about the mysterious nightmares, he was genuinely worried as well, especially right now when John looked ready to breakdown.

He took the glass from John and approached him cautiously. What was one supposed to say now? But the search for words was snatched away from him when John leaned forward and just, rested his forehead against Sherlock’s chest. And on their own accord, Sherlock’s arms came around him and any further need for words was extinguished.

“What’s happening to me, Sherlock? Am I going mad?” Sherlock didn’t want to check if he was crying now and so, he gave the man some privacy in the crook of his neck where John’s face settled. His breath was still ragged and warm, and Sherlock stared at the nape of his neck like it held mysteries his fingers would want to explore.

They sat there like that for a long time. Somewhere during this, the shaking stopped and they got comfortable in the quiet, in safety, in companionship and more. Something more. There was an itching in Sherlock’s hands to do something after a while. A pat on the back maybe? A hug? They had practically been hugging for what seemed like an eternity now. But it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was kind of… nice. Yes. It was good. Sherlock could even say that he preferred this over a scared John Watson who looked too broken to be approached.

“Are you okay?”  
  
John hummed in agreement, breaking the hug and leaning back against the headboard. He looked more tired than he had when Sherlock had met him, when the scars of Afghanistan shone bright on his face, almost obscene, and raring anyone to make a comment about his state. Sherlock wanted to say that it would be alright. That Afghanistan had been tough for everyone involved – soldiers, doctors, people waiting back home. But somehow, he knew those words would seem hollow coming from him. John knew all these things already, probably repeated them to himself every day.

And so, he asked the only thing he genuinely wanted to know.

“Who’s Mary?”

It happened glacially, the opening of eyes, the look of confusion, the slight shrug of the shoulders and then, the shaking of head after a thoughtful pause. Unconsciously, John scribbled the name on the crumpled duvet with his finger repeatedly, as if willing himself to remember something. But nothing came back. His preschool teacher was called that but that was all. After a while, his hand started hurting and there was a fading impression of the name on the cover of the duvet.

“Do you want something? Tea?”

John had looked as amazed at the name as him but he did exchange a few words with Sherlock about who that could be. However, Sherlock hadn’t asked him about the words from their first day yet – _Moriarty_. And there was another one, this one seemed familiar, like he’d heard about it somewhere and willed himself to forget. It was just there in his mind palace but out of his reach. He had spent many a nights rolling the word on the tip of his tongue, looking for anagrams, abbreviations, anything to make the connection. He hadn’t found it and not knowing made it all the more worst. The word was – _Lucrum_.

“No. Just… stay here for a while. Please? I don’t know why but I’m… scared. Like someone is going to catch up with me and I should run. But…I don’t know if I can outrun them.”

John’s voice sounded quiet, broken, and Sherlock nodded at the request. Something ached inside him to see John like that but he didn’t know what it was. There were a lot of things Sherlock didn’t know about these days. Why he’d opened his mouth for the second slice and quietly observed John’s conflicted emotions playing on his face? Why he ate when John instructed him to? Why, when he realised what he was doing, he backed into himself and simply sat in his room, catching up on Wikipedia entries and trying his best to ignore everything?

And so, he leaned back and took John’s idle foot in his lap, pinching the webbing between the toes and lightly massaging the balls of his feet. John’s sigh was peaceful and contented and Sherlock continued doing that, hoping that John would fall asleep.

“Do you want me to get you something to help you sleep?” He muttered as he moved on to the other foot. John shook his head. Somehow, Sherlock understood. He wouldn’t want to sleep if this is what awaited him on the other side.

He rotated the ankle clockwise once, twice, and then anticlockwise. John slid down and Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, pulling at the toes slowly. He smiled when John groaned as he walked his thumbs over the soles, pushing gently at the pressure point.

“Good, that feels good.” John managed, his voice heavy with the exertion of fighting sleep that was made rather difficult with the great foot massage he was being given at the moment.  
  
“I used to do it to my grandmother when I was a kid. She would give me a pound for it,” He grinned as he let go of the foot and climbed on to the bed, occupying the empty side next to John. The silence between them was something only years of companionship brought, when people could sit together for hours and not talk about anything, just their thoughts frothing between them and the ever present comfortable silence. They didn’t know when they fell asleep talking about John’s childhood, Harry’s bullying and football. Sometime during the night, John woke up with Sherlock’s elbow in his face and smiled before pushing the detective off him.

They woke up the next morning under a beautiful and rare London morning, salmon pink skies unaware of nightmares and broken soldiers, unaware of detectives falling in love. They woke up with Sherlock’s head under John’s chin and John’s arms around him. They woke up and John decided that it was probably time for him to see a psychiatrist. They woke up and then, they kissed. Just a chaste peck on the lips while Sherlock’s drowsy heart thudded loudly in his chest. He didn’t know where to put his hands and kept his lips firmly pursed, nervous and suddenly very conscious.

“What is it?” John murmured against the corner of his mouth, thumbs running over his cheekbones.  
  
“I… I don’t know what to do,” he sounded lame, even to himself and when John smiled, for a second Sherlock thought that he might laugh at him.  
“Just, follow my lead. It’s okay, first kisses are usually tricky.”

Sour mouths and beating hearts, lack of sleep and too much of it, they kissed badly amidst tangled tongues and colliding teeth and they kissed until Sherlock laughed in John’s mouth and John bit his lip, hands tangled in midnight locks, a million things running through his head, nothing making an impact apart from dry lips and undone yawns.

And then they kissed some more.

And when they came up to breathe, London was its usual dreary self again, comfortable, home, pouring down on pavements and new romances alike.

 

***

 

They talked for hours after that, chewing on slightly burnt toasts and drinking blessedly warm tea. But they didn’t talk about what had happened. John started on Sherlock’s quickly-getting-cold cup when he finished his own, too lazy to get up and the weather not making matters any better. Between their third cups, he brought up the subject of the psychiatrist again.

“I really think I should see one, you know. This is getting a bit…embarrassing. And I really want to know what it’s all about. It’s been quite a while now, Sherlock, it should have been over by now.” He sighed and rubbed his face, some sleep still in his eyes.  
  
“Well, different people have different ways of dealing with their traumas.” Sherlock didn’t know what else to say. “The psychosomatic limp was easy but yes, if you think you should see someone, I’ll talk to Mycroft about it.” He shook the cup to get the last drops of tea on his tongue and John nodded, getting up to clean things up a bit.  
  
“Yes, now that he knows I’m not a spy, I suppose he’ll be glad to help me.” He muttered, starting on the dishes from last night.

 

***

 

Mycroft Holmes had met John Watson once before, but his cameras had followed him for quite some time after that, until Mycroft was sure that the man was safe. He slipped out of his car, nodding at Anthea who looked up from her Blackberry just for a second before smiling, and drove away. A quick message to Greg Lestrade about an important friend who would be visiting NSY and he was into familiar territory, the treacherous smell of Mrs Hudson’s Lemon Meringue pie making him dizzy for a while before he knocked on the door twice with his umbrella and entered.

“Dear me, Sherlock, I think I might have to bleach my brain after what I am seeing.” Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, his hair sticking out. John Watson sitting on the corner and reading, Sherlock’s feet on his lap. The hand that was stroking Sherlock’s calf through his flimsy pyjamas froze and a look was exchanged between the inhabitants of 221B, a questioning glance from John and a reassuring nod from Sherlock before he leapt out and straightened himself.

“Don’t be dull, Mycroft. I called you up for some help and you could have done that on the phone itself. The trip was rather unnecessary and predictable.” As Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, Sherlock cut him off, “No lectures necessary, I’m a grown man, Mycroft.” And that was it.

Mycroft nodded and gave his usually tight lipped and steely eyed smile to John who returned it back as kindly as he could possibly manage, fisting his hand inside his pockets and biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something he’ll surely regret later.

“So, Doctor Watson-”  
“Call me John.” Mycroft’s eyes crinkled around the edges at that and he raised an eyebrow, continuing as if no one had interrupted him.

“John, Sherlock tells me that you find the need for a psychiatrist. May I ask why?”  
“No, you may not.”

Mycroft looked like someone had slapped him. “I merely ask to recommend someone suitable for your, ah, specific condition,” he finally said.

  
“He has no “specific condition”, Mycroft, just some nightmares.” Sherlock interrupted, giving quite a performance of making tea as it seemed he stood between Mycroft and John, in every sense of the word. “I’m sure you’ll empathise how they might make life difficult for people.” John noticed the slight jerk Mycroft gave at this, trying to stare his brother down as he accepted the cup of tea from him as graciously as he could.

“Alright then, there is one. Molly Hooper. Sherlock, I’m sure you have seen her at your little hobby time in St. Bart’s but she’s also an excellent psychiatrist. A little out of practice but I’m sure she’ll suit Doctor Watson just fine. We need someone with discretion. After all, who knows what monsters might come tumbling out of Doctor Watson’s nightmares.” Before John could decide whether he wanted to throw his tea in Mycroft’s face or rather, the cup, Mycroft got up and made to go, informing them that he would set everything up and they should expect a message from Anthea soon.”

Within 5 minutes or so, John Watson’s appointment had been set with Molly Hooper, the text informed, and he was to be at her house at 5pm next Thursday.

“That was pretty quick.” John resumed his position on the couch, Sherlock’s head on his lap now.  
  
“Yes, it was.”

Now why was Mycroft so interested in this, things were getting more curious for Sherlock who was thankful John couldn’t see his face or the inside of his brain, content at running his hands through his hair and making his bones melt.

 

***

 

Everything before the session was sluggish and yet, breakneck for John. Sherlock left him at the door, needing to meet Lestrade at St. Bart’s but promising him that he’ll meet him back for dinner. He stepped off the living room, reflexively shaking hands with Molly and taking a turn to the left, only to enter her study. His mind was cluttered too much to notice the details of the room, like the crystal paper weight with a brolly pattern, the impression of size 11 shoes with square toes on the overly soft carpet. Thankfully, the atmosphere was casual enough for John and he noticed the recliner sofa, looking at Molly before settling down on it.

“Before we start, just tell me about yourself. Mr Holmes already gave me a detailed sketch of your history, mental and otherwise, but I want to hear the reason of this visit from you. What do _you_ think is the reason behind those nightmares?” Molly started.

“Well, I think they might have some relation to Afghanistan and somewhere, I think they started because I was missing the action. I know it sounds deplorable but yes, I missed the activity and adrenaline. However, when I started working with Sherlock, I thought-- hoped that they would stop.”

“And did they?”

“I wouldn’t be here if they had.” John shrugged.

“When was your first nightmare? Anything particular you remember from it?” She made quick notes on her notepad.

“You see, that is another rather strange point, I remember nothing about these supposed nightmares. In fact, I only call them that because every time I wake up, I’m panting heavily and there is a sort of fear in my bones, like my very heart is going to jump out of my throat. They weren’t so bad before but they have only been getting worse now and if there is a way to put an end to them, I’m all ears.”

“So, you’re saying that you are here because you want them to stop. Is that really the reason why you are here, John?”

At this, John looked up, having finally grown bored of examining the carpet strands. Molly met his gaze, reading him much better than he had read her.

“Yes.” He lied casually.

“I suggest you leave, Doctor Watson because I have a lot of important work which would be much more fruitful than this conversation.” Saying which, she got up and held the door out for him. John stared at her for a second, opening and closing his mouth like he couldn’t believe his ears. Then he shook his head and sighed.

“No. I… want to find out what these dreams are. I am curious. And I know that somehow, Sherlock knows more than I do and that just-- it pisses me off that I don’t know what’s going on in my own head. I know that if I get through this, if I find out what it is that’s troubling me, I would feel better. Like, it’s important for me to uncover this mystery.” He finished in a breath, taking a sip from the glass of water he hadn’t noticed on the side table before and also trying to escape the half smile she gave him at his confession.

“That’s much better. Now, you and I are on equal footing. Remember this Doctor Watson-”

“Please call me John.”

She quietly moved back to the opposite couch, inhaling loudly.

“Remember this John and I will not repeat it again, I can only help you if you let me help you. You need to be absolutely honest with me. As you know, I don’t do this for a living and this is exactly the reason why – I don’t like how people expect to be helped by keeping things from their psychiatrist. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” He kept the glass down and leaned back on the recliner.

“Good. Now close your eyes and just follow my voice, listen to nothing else but my voice. You need to find your centre and you shall comply by my instructions. Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

 

***

 

Molly Hooper’s flat was compact and bright. It seemed to go quite well with her personality, all yellow curtains and fragrant flowers in the corner. There was cat fur all over the couch but their owner was missing. Sherlock had left after John had gone in, taking care of some business in St. Bart’s with Lestrade but he just couldn’t focus on the case and gave NSY all the information as quickly as he could, avoiding his dramatic flourishes and coming back just in time to see John come out of Molly’s study, shaking hands with her and giving her a warm smile while his eyes looked unfocussed and puffy.

“How was the session? Did you see something?” Sherlock handed him the coffee he’d bought on the way, nodding at Molly as she closed the door. John quickened his pace, trying to get over with the single flight of stairs as quickly as he could and looking around carefully but still managing to maintain the casualness in his glance.

“Uh…nothing new, just what I expected - stuff from Afghanistan I had buried deep within my mind and hoped to never see, dead bodies and screams in the air, getting shot. It’s all a blur, really but yeah, nothing extraordinary.” He shrugged it off but his eyes stared right ahead as the lie left his lips, not blinking at all until his face turned away from Sherlock and he hailed a cab.

The quiet ride had none of their previous familiarity and comfort, it was as cold and fearful as John’s eyes had been when he had woken up from his second nightmare.

 

***

 

How wrong was Sherlock really to be back where he started – leaning against the cupboard in front of John’s bed, sliding off it every few minutes as the clock ticked to 12:13 am. They had come back from the session and John had gone straight to his room, making some flimsy excuse about wanting to update his blog about their last case together.

They both knew that the reasoning for shaky at best and if John knew Sherlock even a little, he should have come up with something better or at least, respect his intelligence while concocting a lie. However, his head hurt after his session and keeping information from his flatmate, friend and recently, lover, was taking its toll on him. They missed dinner that day. They also missed talking.

And so, here Sherlock was, a slight imperfection in the wood at the bottom of the cupboard hurting his back and getting entangled at the back of his dressing gown, waiting for John to have another nightmare. But, unlike all the other nights, tonight, he was sure of the arrival of it. John’s mental state was fragile, at best, and stronger men than John had crumbled under such pressure.

As expected, it arrived but not at the end of his NREM stage 1, as was customary for John. Instead, Sherlock found himself awoken by laboured breathing and rustling sounds of fingers digging in the duvet at around 6 am. John was chanting something under his breath, the same name over and over again – _Mary, Mary, Mary_. Who was this woman and what was her connection with John? Over the days, Sherlock had come to hate the word more than anything else. What had earlier been a mere curiosity was now laced with a hint of jealously, though Sherlock failed to recognise it as such.

Another change from their everyday ritual was that this time, John awoke himself. And he was no longer scared or afraid. His eyes were awake within a few seconds as well, like he hadn’t slept at all. John’s age peeked at Sherlock from under the bags of his eyes that were bloodshot now and the breathing was urgent, but not as laboured as it had been before. John saw Sherlock before he could get up. But he was probably too tired to notice that the man had been half asleep when John’s eyes first landed on him. It wasn’t a surprise to him anymore that every time a nightmare failed to catch up on him and John returned to the real world, Sherlock was always there. Initially, waking him up and later, comforting him while John babbled nonsense that neither of them spoke of when the night flew past them.

But the biggest difference this time was that he remembered exactly what he had seen. It hadn’t been a nightmare. It had been a dream, a pleasant one, more real than anything that had happened to him in these past few months. John was ashamed to admit that he was a bit disappointed it had ended.

_He was looking out of a window into a small garden, a passion flower just sprouting on the shaded area under their window. He checked the streets like he was expecting someone to jump out from behind the bins. The wind rattled and John closed the curtains, checking the window twice before he went on to check the locks on the door. On his way to his bedroom, he noticed a half empty cup of tea on the table and left it as it was. He was comfortable, this was usual for him. He was also happy with an aching sense of dissatisfaction and emptiness, and this was usual too._

_When he reached the room, his face scanned the picture on the bedside table – him and a woman he knew to be his wife, Mary. And he perfunctorily thanked his lucky stars and the deities he didn’t believe in at having found her. The woman had lovely dark hair, greying around the temples and John wanted to touch the bits where the greys met the blacks. He felt the overwhelming chasm of emptiness in his heart again but like every other day of his life, he replaced it with love he knew he should feel, the love he was supposed to feel at having been so blessed. There were people out there, asleep under the same sky as him and wearing the same hours of clock in their hearts, and they envied him. The thought offered him little solace but he took it._

_There was also a hidden feeling wanting to resurface but gulped down by John with the routine glass of water he had before going to bed – of running from all this and leaving into a world of fiction. Where he could do what he wanted, where he didn’t have to worry about locked windows but merely slept with a gun under his pillow. Where every time he fired a shot, his breath caught in his throat and held him back from screaming in joy. Where his home smelled like gun powder and tobacco. His fingers itched for a cigarette, but he had promised Mary that he wouldn’t touch those cursed things again and believing that this is what a good guy what supposed to do, he had never let one fill the emptiness in his lungs after he’d made the promise._

_After he walked around the house again, running from the exhaustion of a hollow life, he slid under the covers and quietly put his arms around Mary. For a few seconds, the smell of her shampoo and her sweet smelling but fast fading perfume gave him an inexplicable sentimental feeling in his heart. His mind went back to the time he had seen her for the first time, trying on some earrings at a mall with her back towards him, her laughter making John’s stomach flip. And then she’d turned around and brushed her hair from her face when their eyes met, viridian and hazel brown, and he’d fallen in love instantly. He had told himself that this was the laughter that would fill the vacuum he had felt forever, that was the smile he would want to wake up to when waking seemed hard and frankly, unnecessary._

_And here they were. Two bodies wrapped by something less than love but more than friendship. They made love like they made tea every morning, they knew everything and the sense of stability and familiarity, which were his passions in life, seemed not enough. Lacking. Immaterial._

_And here they were, Mary’s slighter form in his arms and his nose in her dark hair with their greying storms. He wished he would see that dream about Afghanistan again, of dying in his own blood and become the very golden sands he had fallen onto._

John didn’t notice when Sherlock slid under the covers and kissed the nape of his neck, hiding his face from the soft yellow light filtering from the window. Before John turned around and tucked himself under the all too familiar chin, he felt for his gun under his pillow and gave it some of the warmth from his fingers.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Moran was old. Older than he cared to remember. He should have died all those years ago, in that gutter, or at best a few hours later, at the hands of some of the goons in that village. The First Holy Roman Empire was not a kind place for people like him. Charlemagne had one of the strongest standing armies of that time. His strength lay not just in the number of regular soldiers he could field, but in the number of men blessed with the Will that he had under his command. In Theotiscam, such men were called Eisentreib. Men like Moran were called Cristveggen.

As was to be expected, Eisentreib and Cristveggen held rather special and unique places in the society of the Holy Roman Empire. The Eisentreib were highly coveted warriors, their control over metal made them seemingly invincible in the medieval battlefield. Indeed the best and most powerful kings of the era were Eisentreibs themselves. Charlemagne was an Eisentreib of some prowess. The founder of his original kingdom, the Frankish empire, King Clovis I was an Eisentreib whose skill and prowess over metal was the stuff of bedtime stories for children. It was not until nearly five centuries after Charlemagne’s death that the development of gunpowder units began to create any semblance of balance in the battlefield between regular soldiers and Eisentreibs.

The Cristveggens did not fare so well in the Hole Roman Empire. Since very early days, their powers were regarded with reservation and caution at best and open hostility and disdain at worst. This was in some measure due to a fault in some of the most powerful Cristveggen of olden days. Unlike the Eisentreibs, their abilities were not of much use in combat. But given enough natural flair and a large amount of training and practise, some of the best Cristveggen could manage to manipulate the feelings of the people around them. They were not mind readers, and hence could not directly read a person’s thoughts or change them, but manipulating the feelings of the said person, they could indirectly make them think or behave in a particular way. Naturally, this ability was abused by early practitioners of the art giving them quite an ill reputation.

Thus, by the time Charlemagne was in power, the reputation of Cristveggen had suffered almost irreparable damage. In addition to reckless the emotional manipulation carried out by Cristveggen of old, Eisentreibs who had managed to come into any measure of political power (and there were quite a few of them) had left no stone unturned in ensuring that their cousins were left completely powerless in society. Most Cristveggens had to either give up on their art entirely or else had to resort to practicing it far away from prying eyes.

It was into such a society that Moran was born and he loathed it. When his parents discovered that their second son was a Cristveggen they were struck by grief. They did not have to means to hide him away anywhere. Cristveggens born into families of affluence were hidden away until they were old enough to be sent to monasteries where they would become monks or nuns. The Morans were simple serfs. They could never manage to send their son to a monastery. This was not because the monasteries required any fees or donations, but because being serfs, they had quite a large amount of loan to pay off and that meant that every hand to help with the labour helped.

When he was 21, Moran slipped off into the night, away from the trappings of the society that looked down upon him, making him feel subhuman. He went to a monastery on the outskirts of Aachen. Upon reaching the monastery, he began working as a monk. His field of study was the mythology and lore of the era. He made extensive notes on many ancient myths and mysteries handed down to the people by their ancestors. His field of expertise stretched from ancient Greek mythologies and Babylonian and Persian legends to the relatively medieval Roman stories of lore and also the folktales and legends of the erstwhile Holy Roman Empire.

He was possessed by a burning desire to learn more about his art and its counterpart. However, the more he delved into these tales and legends, the lesser his obsession for this knowledge grew. For another tale, just as mysterious and enticing as the legends of Cristveggens and Eisentreibs managed to latch on to his attention.

Throughout the histories and legends of Greece, Persia, Babylon, Sumeria and even Egypt and right up to the Roman Empire, people talked of Gods. That was but obvious. The pagan civilisations believed in multiple Gods and worshipped them for their control over the elements of Nature. Throughout the records and tales of these people, Moran found a few peculiar pieces of information rather tantalizing. Most of these civilisations believed in multiple deities who often existed in different places controlling different aspects of Nature. And although these people each referred to their Gods by different names, they were all basically the same beings. The God of Earth, the God of Wind, the God of Rain, the God of the Sea and many more. However, there was one more thing that was referred to by all these civilisations commonly, yet by different names. This was the method by which these different Gods all in different places communicated with each other.

There were Messenger Gods in most ancient civilisations’ belief systems, but those, in Moran’s eyes, were merely anthropomorphic representations of a system of communication between Gods. He felt that the methods and means of communication between these Gods had to be something more reliable than a divine courier service. As he worked harder on this theory, he began to get even more consumed by it.

But before he could complete his studies to any satisfactory extent, he befell the incident at the tavern and he was whisked away from his familiar hermit lifestyle. He was immediately taken in by Moriarty and the way he carried himself. When Moriarty saw Moran’s Cristveggen skills for the first time, he was clearly very impressed. They stayed at a nearby inn for 5 nights and got the food and ale for free. It was almost second nature to Moran by then, for he had practised a lot in the monastery. One could practise so much in the company of those who have given up on ever having a ‘normal’ life.

After a few months together, Moriarty let Moran in on his secret. At first Moran was in sheer disbelief. How could _God_ present himself to a mere mortal? He was sure that he was not hallucinating because he saw that other people could also see and hear and interact with this man. But when Moran saw Moriarty use his skills, there was no doubt left in his mind. Not only was this man a fairly accomplished Cristveggen, but he was an Eisentreib the likes of which Moran had not ever heard of. Clearly, any person who could control both these arts had to be either supremely blessed, or God himself. For lack of any evidence to suggest that Moriarty’s claim was untrue, Moran accepted his word and looked upon him as God.

As a final act of proof, and possibly out of his love and respect for this newfound friend of his, Moriarty did something that Moran had thought impossible. One day, he simply lifted the curse of ageing off Moran’s shoulders. His only request to Moran was that he should always serve him faithfully. After seeing what his Lord had done for him, Moran was only too pleased to be able to serve his master for all of eternity.

When Moran told Moriarty about this theory of his, about the method of communication between Gods, a quizzical look covered his visage. He was silent for an extremely long time, seemingly pondering over some intractable problem. After almost a day of being cooped up in his room, his Lord approached Moran and asked him to continue his research. Moran was only too pleased to hear those words.

Being in the service of a God, and being a superbly accomplished Cristveggen himself, Moran had little trouble gathering information about these methods of communication between these God-like entities. He widened his scope to religions from all across the world. He now had access to texts describing Gods and how they communicated between themselves from Greek, Sumerian, Babylonian, Roman, Hindu, Islamic, Jewish, Christian, Ancient American, Mayan, Inca, Aztec and possibly all other civilisations that had ever existed. Amongst all these texts, he found the same theme - an anthropomorphic representation of a system or method by which these God-like creatures relayed messages to one another.

He was growing increasingly frustrated at the sheer lack of evidence to support his theory. However, Moriarty was very patient with him. Often he would encourage Moran to continue with his search for further proof or information regarding this elusive method of communication. Moran found a sliver of information for the first time almost 62 years after he began working on this puzzle with Moriarty’s help.

An ancient Polynesian tribe living somewhere in the Samoan Islands had a legend which described a system of communication between the various entities they labelled ‘Gods’. This system consisted of a number of stones that these beings carried with themselves wherever they went. These stones, called the ‘Ma’a Toto’a’, were said to be able to facilitate direct visual and verbal contact between any two individuals who had them. The Ma’a Toto’a were almost exactly what the other cultures called ‘Messenger Gods’ but with the slight difference that they were actual instruments rather than anthropomorphic figures of legend.

This discovery made Moran ecstatic. After spending what seemed to him as the better part of eternity searching for some rational explanation of the method by which the various God-like creatures that all cultures and religions across the world worshipped, Moran had finally stumbled across something that seemed at least infinitesimally plausible to him. He presented his findings to a visibly jubilant and glowing Moriarty. His mirth knew no bounds when he saw the sheer joy and pride in his saviour’s eyes. He had finally proven his worth to Moriarty. It was not that Moriarty had ever questioned it, but Moran increasingly had this sinking feeling that he had let his Lord and master down terribly by never delivering any solid proof or evidence in support of his hypothesis.

Moran soon found out that the real work had only just begun. The Ma’a Toto’a, although being the very thing that Moran had always wanted, had hardly any information describing them. The tribe that came up with the idea was conquered by other tribes in the area quite soon after its creation. However, upon closer inspection, Moran came up with many other tribes on those islands and islands nearby which had tribal cultures that had similar notions about how their God-like beings communicated with one another.

He began looking at all these tribes’ versions of the Ma’a Toto’a and comparing them against the notions that all the other cultures had regarding their Messenger Gods. It was a long and arduous task and after almost 8 to 9 years of solid and tenacious labour, Moran had finally done it. He had distilled all the disparate ideas about how all the different God-like creatures described by all the cultures and religions that had ever existed on this Earth communicated between each other. At the end of this seemingly impossible task, the last 2 years of which saw Moran literally not working on anything other than trying to sort this jumble of information out, all that he could do was just sit back and let the others do the legwork now.

There was still a lot of information that was too complicated even for him, despite being the absolute last word on divine communication theories now. Thus, in the end, it had taken a huge amount of combined effort between him and Moriarty to finally sort this puzzle out and get a clear description of this item, called the Ma’a Toto’a, and to discover the means by which it operated.

The Ma’a Toto’a, as described by various texts and glyphs across smaller civilisations that got wiped out very quickly, was a crystal. It was a crystal made of, and this was just conjecture on their part, Animus, the very same crystal that gave the Cristveggen their powers. All Animus crystals, big or small, had a miniscule smoke cloud that was lodged at their very heart. As the Cristveggen consumed the energy of these crystals to either See or emotionally manipulate people by Suppressing certain feelings and/or Storming certain other feelings, the smoke cloud would begin to fill up. However, the Ma’a Toto’a was different from all other known Animus crystals in that it was clear when not in use and it would begin to fill up with smoke, indicating that there was someone trying to communicate with the particular crystal.

The Ma’a Toto’a was different from other Animus crystals in another way. Unlike other Animus crystals that were shaped irregularly when mined from the Earth, the Ma’a Toto’a was spherical, almost like a crystal ball. It was a smooth and polished ball of Animus that was clear and free of smoke usually, but would fill up with smoke if someone was trying to contact it, and by extension, its owner.

However, the most intriguing and interesting thing about the Ma’a Toto’a, as described by various civilisations over the years is how they could act as some kind of a bridge between the two points in space and time that were communicating with each other through them. This meant that the two parties conversing with one another could pass small objects whose dimensions were lesser than diameter of the crystal sphere via the Ma’a Toto’a to each other. When they came across information pertaining to this aspect of the crystal, Moriarty confided in Moran the first details of his Grand Plan, _their_ Grand Plan. Moran was so amazed when he heard about the Plan from Moriarty that for almost 3 to 4 hours he could not work on gathering information about the Ma’a Toto’a.

However, soon after he had gathered his wits about him, he and Moriarty began to throw theories at each other regarding how the Ma’a Toto’a would function. It was important to gain as much knowledge about the exact mechanisms by which these crystals functioned before they could even consider something along the scale of their Grand Plan.

Finally, after weeks of pondering over the problem, Moriarty and Moran reached the conclusion that the Ma’a Toto’a crystals were quite similar to normal Animus crystals in that it was the energy possessed by the Animus atoms that fuelled their powers. However, they were radically different from regular Animus crystals, obviously, because of their shape. Maybe it was not just that the Ma’a Toto’a crystals were spherical in shape rather than irregular, but the Animus atoms themselves were arranged differently with respect to each other than they would be in a regular Animus crystal. That would perhaps explain why this particular set of crystals was devoid of any typical Animus smoke. Perhaps the stronger or more potent an Animus crystal was, the lesser dense the inner smoke would be. Moran could affirm this conjecture from his own experience. Every once in a while he would land up with an Animus crystal that was just slightly more potent, the change was so insignificant that only thoroughly practiced master Cristveggens would be able to feel it. Such crystals would have a smaller and less dense smoke cloud in them, even after being completely exhausted.

Moran and Moriarty postulated that the energy held in these Ma’a Toto’a crystals was not only quite a bit more powerful than that held in regular Animus crystals, but it would also replenish itself over time. Therefore, there was never any need to replace or alter these crystals. All they needed now was a way to somehow enhance the energy field of the Ma’a Toto’a crystals so that it would spread over a larger area in space and then their Grand Plan would be set in motion. However, another vital and crucial thing that prevented them from carrying out this plan was the lack of any Ma’a Toto’a crystal.

Together, Moriarty and Moran began a two-pronged strategy to deal with both these problems. At one end, they began to recruit scientists and Cristveggen to help create a machine that would enhance the energy field of the Ma’a Toto’a crystal to a sizeable area. Simultaneously they also began to look for anything that could possibly be a hiding place for a Ma’a Toto’a.

They scanned all of Moran’s notes, and the religious texts themselves once those were exhausted, to find any clue as to where they could possibly find a Ma’a Toto’a crystal. But all the notes and the texts were mute on this point. So Moriarty suggested that they had best send men to investigate all the famously mysterious sites around the globe. So they had sent Jìl and his men on the hunt for the elusive Ma’a Toto’a crystal to all these sites. Finally, after years of hunting, Jìl’s team had found it -  under Easter Island, in a seemingly unmarked site, they had found a clear crystal of Animus. It was about 3.5 inches in diameter and it had no smoke cloud inside it, none whatsoever. This had to be the legendary Ma’a Toto’a crystal.

After they reported that they had found it, Moran instructed Jìl and his men to carefully bring it to their basilica at The Shard, place it in their chancel and make it their sacred duty to maintain a constant and unwavering vigil on it. All that he told Jìl and his men was that this crystal was a part of something great that the Lord was planning and that it was their sacred duty to watch it.

It came as little surprise to Moran then, a few days after they had put their plan into action that Jìl came up to him and reported eagerly that the Ma’a Toto’a had begun to fill. Moran went and observed it for himself. The smoke was there, almost unnoticeable, in fact almost invisible to the untrained eye not knowing where to look and what to look for. But to him and his hand-picked corps of Cristveggen, it was plain as day.

The Ma’a Toto’a was filling up. The Grand Plan was afoot.

 

***

 

St. Luke’s Street, London has always been home to many of the richest and most powerful people of the city. Houses built adjacent to each other, resembling a standing army. Maybe this way the builders hoped to beat time. One of the many white coloured and stuccoed houses on St. Luke’s street had something minutely peculiar about it. One could not tell immediately though. It was a normal-looking place with a ground floor, a basement and a top floor. It belonged to a government official of some minor capacity. Like many of the houses on St. Luke’s street, it had an attic or storage room that was filled with old, broken and unused things, put out of sight and out of mind. One such item was a seemingly faulty crystal ball. That crystal ball, lying between a dented old travelling trunk and a chest with two legs, all covered in a thick layer of dust and a thicker layer of time, was now slowly but surely smoking up from the inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Related Notes:
> 
> Theotiscam: an early German dialect
> 
> Cristveggen: a word derived from Romance (an early Italian dialect)


	6. Chapter 6

“You are coming tonight, aren’t you?” inquired Mycroft Holmes, poring over a stack of documents that were part of some trade agreement with India. He did not even bother to look up at Percy West.

Mycroft Holmes was always like that, perpetually busy with all the worries of the world on his shoulders. West was initially a bit intimidated by this thoroughly professional and strict work regimen. He was not a careless man by any stretch of imagination, but he was hardly the type who would spend long hours at work, coming in an hour before time and leaving a couple of hours later than everyone. He did not subscribe to the idea of carrying his work home over the weekend. He felt a bit out of place and he felt that Mycroft Holmes had made a poor choice by selecting him over the other candidates to become his assistant.

His worries were unfounded, though. His boss never overburdened him with office work nor did he expect West to stay back late in office with him or take his work home. In fact, Mycroft Holmes had a stoic and understated respect for him, it seemed to West. Though he never said it out loud, West had begun feeling that he would rather have a man who had his priorities set the way West had rather than someone more like himself because, probably, somewhere deep inside him, Mycroft Holmes was tired of his lifestyle. He had no family or any friends outside of his colleagues. But then again, from whatever West had gathered from his last year of working with Mycroft Holmes, he was not discontent.

Far from it, in fact, for Mycroft Holmes was in the habit of regularly organising parties and gatherings at his house where he would invite high ranking officials and ministers from Her Majesty’s government and ambassadors, and other members of the consulates of other countries. At these events, Mycroft Holmes would be the picture perfect host. He would walk around and engage in conversation with almost everyone he had invited. Unlike most other official parties, however, Holmes’ events were not restricted to matters of purely official or gubernatorial matters. He actively encouraged his guests to bring their families, even fiancées and children, if one had either of those.

That night’s party was going to be another high profile event. Mycroft Holmes had invited the High Commissioner of India, her attendants, the Chinese Ambassador to the United Kingdom and his attendants, the Minister of State for Trade and Investment and a few high-ranking civil servants working in his ministry. The purpose behind inviting the Indian High Commissioner and the Chinese Ambassador to a single event was two pronged. He intended to reaffirm the United Kingdom’s position of neutrality between these two Asian powerhouses and he wanted to privately announce the new trade treaty with India.

The one inexplicable thing about Mycroft Holmes, in the eyes of his assistant Percy West, was how charismatic and influential the man was and yet, how he never truly showed any ambitions for higher office. Mycroft Holmes could have been the Permanent Secretary or Cabinet Secretary quite a few years earlier. But he actively declined any hint of promotions that were sent towards him. It was not that he did not want the accompanying responsibilities, for he was already carrying out all of those tasks without even being asked to. West could never quite understand what it was about the upper echelons of power that kept Mycroft Holmes away from it.

“Yes Sir, of course I am. Shall I bring my wife too?” asked West. Though he already knew that the answer would be an affirmation, he never failed to ask his host’s permission before bringing his wife with him.

“Yes, of course. Why do you keep asking me this question time and time again? Samantha is just as welcome to my house as you are on any day.” Mycroft Holmes replied, looking up from his papers and taking off the reading glasses that threatened to slip off his nose.  
“The guests should start arriving by about 8 o’ clock in the evening.”

“We shall be there earlier than that, Sir. We would love to help you with any last minute arrangements.” West said, smiling at Mycroft Holmes.

He would not say that they were ‘friends’, but he really liked Mycroft Holmes and, for some reason, always wanted to do whatever he could to help him out, whether it was tying up loose ends with the office paper work so that Mycroft Holmes had time to do whatever it was that was important enough to be given to the busiest man in Her Majesty’s Civil Service, or whether it was arriving an hour early at an informal high profile state event to help arrange stuff.

“Samantha would not be part of my fan-club, I’m sure,” smiled Holmes.

“Oh no, Sir, nothing of the sort. She loves helping, Sir,” uttered West defensively.

“Very well then, if it is not too much of a bother to you two, you can come earlier than that.” So saying, Holmes waved his hand signalling that he needed some time alone.

 

***

 

At 5 minutes to 7 that evening, Percy and Samantha West stood at the bright blue door of 18, St. Luke’s Street, London. One of the staff Holmes’ had hired to wait on and serve his guests later that night opened the door.

“Who should I say is calling?” asked the man smoothly.

“Mrs and Mr West,” said West, nodding curtly and handing the man his hat and umbrella while his wife took off her coat.

They waited for a few moments in the waiting room while the steward returned and asked them to make their way to the hall. West was always struck by how big Mycroft Holmes’ house seemed. Despite being one of the most expensive areas in London, the houses in this area were not as spacious as houses in other neighbourhoods would be for a comparable price.

Yet, Mycroft Holmes’ house had a decently sized waiting room for guests while he received them. The waiting room opened into a large living room with comfortably cushioned sofas, chairs and tables and a grandfather clock.

This room alone could comfortably hold around 15 to 20 people at the least. There was a flight of stairs that led up towards the upper floor which housed Mycroft Holmes’ own bedroom and guest bedrooms. The hall had a passageway leading out towards the hall where he hosted his famous parties, such as the one being thrown that night.

Just before entering the hall, towards the left was the kitchen, which was about as big as a studio apartment. Mycroft Holmes’ sweet tooth was the butt of quite a few well-mannered jokes in their circles. He was, in fact, a very skilled cook and could rustle up a dish that would leave you smacking your lips and licking your fingers with almost no ingredients and even lesser effort on his part.

Another door in the passageway, on the right this time, led to the cellar where the wines were kept. People often joked that Holmes ought to get a separate insurance for his cellar alone. One could find wines so fine that the oenophiles amongst his guests would end up spending almost the entire duration of the party in the cellar, tasting wines.

West sometimes wondered whether Holmes took the ‘insure the cellar’ comments as a joke or did he in fact act upon them. Who would blame the man if he did? The hall had large French windows that opened into St. Luke’s Gardens. Although strictly speaking, using public properties for such private affairs as parties was frowned upon, Mycroft Holmes’ parties were always an exception.

Although Holmes’ house and all its rooms were open for his guests to access at all times, he would always request guests to stay outside his study.

His study was in the room next to his bedroom and was accessible only via a door in his bedroom. As an added measure of security, he always had at least one of the stewarding staff in his bedroom or at the door to his bedroom, who would prevent people from entering the study. Although West and many of the other guests to Holmes’ house did find this arrangement awkward, they just ignored the aberration. Everyone is allowed a few oddities and eccentricities. Besides, why would anyone want to enter a person’s study when they had the whole of the rest of the house to be in? One very important rule that was never ever broken in Holmes’ parties was that when Mycroft Holmes entered the study, the King and all of his men would not be allowed to disturb him until he came out on his own volition. Just another oddity, one would assume.

He ran the tightest ship, as far as governments go, in the entire world. There was nothing that could happen to the government and the people of the United Kingdom that Mycroft Holmes had not already prepared for. It was not without reason that people said “Mycroft Holmes _is_ the British Government”.

 

***

 

The party was going well. The Minister of State for Trade and the Indian High Commissioner had only just finished jointly reading the trade agreement in the living room, a more secluded location than the hall with all its guests. Mycroft was just leading a jubilant Minister and an equally satisfied High Commissioner back to the party when he felt his mobile phone vibrate in his pocket. He took a look at the screen and his expression suddenly changed. He quickly regained his demeanour of the charming and affable host and lingered in the party for just a few more seconds. Once the Minister and the High Commissioner had mingled with the crowd again, he quietly slipped away from the party.

He climbed up the stairs and made his way to his study at the back of his bedroom. He was trying to figure out why he had received that call and how to keep the conversation as short as possible. He did not like being disturbed when he was hosting a party, not even by his own family that considered “broke my last clean test tube” to be an emergency.

He entered the study, asked the steward waiting outside to not let anyone enter or disturb him whilst he was in there, and closed the door behind him. Out of habit, he went to his teakwood desk and sat on the large comfortable chair behind it. The study was lined with shelves that went up to the remarkably high ceiling. He had a couple of ladders with wheels attached to the bookcases to grant access to the volumes higher up. There were copies of some of the rarest books on Earth. If he recalled correctly, he had the only known original versions of at least 7 books. He had books on almost all conceivable subject matters.

There was a thick book lying on his desk, the colour of his door. Again, out of habit, he picked it up and opened it at a random page. He read a few lines from it and closed his eyes, as if meditating. When he opened them, the study had grown noticeably larger, with more books having appeared in the extended shelves. There was also a door leading to a flight of stairs going up. This led to the store room where he kept things that he had discarded but did not want to throw away from his house.

He sighed heavily and glanced at his mobile phone. It showed him that he had 1 unread message and 2 missed calls. They were all from the same irksome man. He opened the message and stared at its contents.

“Send contact details of trusted psychiatrist. John needs help with recurring nightmares.

-SH”

There was no one who tested Mycroft’s patience quite the way Sherlock managed to without even trying a bit. Had it been some serious offense that either of them had committed unto one another or some serious threat that either of them posed to each other, Mycroft would have handled it. He would have understood Sherlock’s constant state of annoyance when dealing with him. It would have made things a lot easier, in fact, if there was any true animosity between them. But that was not the case here. For some reason that Mycroft had never been able to fathom, Sherlock behaved like a 12 year old boy who had just been told that he would not be getting an action man to replace the one his elder brother had accidentally broken simply because he had other toys to play with.

Sherlock would make it a point to go out of his way to annoy Mycroft to no end. Mycroft had always had a tremendous love for his family. Especially since the day their father just left them with their mother, Mycroft valued familial ties above all else. His relationship with his mother was a testament to this. Mycroft would spend all of his free time with his mother in the hospital, and later at their house in the country, during her last five months. No official matters would interfere with his time with her. But Sherlock was an entirely different story.

In this case, however, he chose to act on Sherlock’s request. He had met Doctor John Watson and had liked what he had seen. John was an honest and straight-forward person who, unlike most other people, seemed rather unimpressed by his brother’s mental faculty. It was not that John was not amazed at Sherlock’s abilities to pull accurate deductions seemingly out of thin air, but he did not use those as an excuse for his brother’s callous behaviour towards everyone around him. Although he did not know John personally quite well yet, Mycroft already liked him for his honesty, bluntness and the way he behaved with Sherlock. Also, he hoped that this man might make something out of his brother, after all. So, he decided that if a man as upright as Sherlock had decided to ask Mycroft for help with this matter, then John would indeed be in some serious measure of trouble. But before he could do anything about this matter or dwell upon it at leisure, he had a party to host.

He returned to the party and had dinner with guests of honour sharing his table. After everyone had complimented Mycroft on the excellent cheesecake and lemon pie that he had baked for dessert, he began to see off his guests. In about 15 minutes, Mycroft was left all alone in his house, waving a smiling Percy West goodbye as he and his wife made their way to their car, parked some way down the street. Mycroft heaved a sigh of relief as he closed the door.

His staff would clean up the place before retiring for the night. He made his way up to his study where he carried out his usual routine of picking up the blue book and meditating after reading a few random lines from it.

People were really taxing. He liked to observe them and work with them and even work on getting to make them do as he wished in his political power plays, but having them in his house and interacting with them on an informal front was disconcerting. But he had accepted this as some of the side-effects of having the kind of work profile as he did.

Mycroft Holmes enjoyed his work. He liked being the man who pulled all the strings to make the puppets dance. He liked being the person everyone came to when they had problems that seemed so convoluted that no possible solution could be found which would not create a thousand different problems to deal with. He loved the feeling of silent admiration he got from all his colleagues and people in governments all over the world when he took such problems and, in a matter of a few hours or days came up with the perfect solutions. He enjoyed throwing parties like these because he could use the informal atmosphere therein to understand how the attendees behaved outside the confines of their office chambers. He could then use that information, sometimes even personal information pertaining to their families, to solve the various problems put to him. He felt very happy when he was referred to as the British Government. So, although the job had its downsides, on the whole, Mycroft was pretty happy with the way things were.

He liked to use his time in his study to reflect on the problems presented to him. He felt safe and secure in his study, once he had performed his ritual with the book. The entire thing was arranged in such a way that even if anyone did manage to get past the person he had posted at the door, all they would see is Mycroft sitting behind his desk working away on a stack of papers. They would not see the blue book or the flight of stairs leading up to the storage room or the hundreds of extra books that appeared to fill in the excess space created on the bookshelves by the expansion of the room’s dimensions. He would, however, see them as they were, undistorted by any manipulations. If they asked him any questions, they would see his working-self look at them over his glasses and answer their questions curtly and to the point. Although this had never happened before, Mycroft was sure that he would be able to have them leave him to his ruminations in a matter of a few seconds.

Today, he was thinking about many things, as usual. There were the South Korean elections getting closer, and he had to ensure that the conservative Saenuri Party did not lose more than 55% of the votes. There was also the Arab political situation that he needed to keep an eye on. A few wrong moves there and thousands could end up dead or worse, under tyrannical rule and oppression. There were a million other things going on in the world that needed his urgent attention.

However, amidst all these thoughts, he kept going back to that text message from Sherlock. Why did Sherlock need Mycroft’s help in getting a psychiatrist? What was so wrong with John and the nightmares he was possibly having that it needed the kind of help only Mycroft could give? Sherlock knew about Mycroft’s own predicament involving nightmares. He was probably asking him to refer John to the same psychiatrist who helped him. There was a secret about that incident that Sherlock did not, that Sherlock would never know.

It was almost 5 years ago now. Yet Mycroft remembered that entire episode of his life vividly. He had been getting crippling nightmares about the fight. His interactions with his brother did little to help his condition. His workload was piled higher than ever before, it seemed. His colleagues constantly commented on his tired looks and how he was prone to making small errors. He would not be able to get a good night’s sleep and rest; he would be plagued by visions from his nightmares. He found it impossible to concentrate on his work for more than a few minutes at a stretch.

Things began to get really out of hand soon. He let vital information supplied to him by his MI5 agents go unnoticed, thereby leading to the deaths of 52 people and over 700 injured. That was when he decided to get his act together before anything even more serious happened. His discreet inquiries popped up the name of a budding new psychiatrist who practiced at the Sloane Court clinic. Though she was relatively new at her job, his sources said that she was pretty good at what she did. Mycroft was not interested in getting any proper psychiatric help, he just wanted to get some medicines to help him sleep dreamlessly. He figured that her relative inexperience and his power and position in the government would mean that he could easily push her over and get his medicines. He was in for a bit of a surprise.

He found her waiting for him in her office. She was a young woman, about 25 years old, it seemed. There was an air of professionalism and competence about her as she went about going through the papers he had given her. She looked at them for a few seconds after she had smiled at him and motioned for him to take a seat.

“Good morning, Mr James McCarthy.” She smiled at him, a warm and honest smile.

“Good morning, Doctor.” Mycroft smiled back.

“So, I am given to believe that you have had some terrible sleep issues. I’m afraid I cannot be of much help with just that much to go on.” She was looking squarely at him, presenting an honest face and expecting the same from her patient.

“There is nothing more to tell you, Doctor. It’s just that. I have trouble sleeping. I hope you can help me out with this.” Mycroft looked back steadily at her. The plan was clear in his mind, he just wanted the medicines, and he was not in need of any mental help.

“Yes, I respect that. But I hope you understand that I cannot simply prescribe you some generic drugs without at least checking your mental state.” She said quite firmly. Mycroft did not like where this was going.

“But, Doctor, surely you understand that I do not have time for this. You must know that I am a terribly busy man.” Mycroft said, his patience wearing thinner by the passing second.

“I cannot afford to be _too understanding_ with this job, I’m afraid. These are matters of the mind, as I’m sure you would understand,” She replied, looking him dead in the eyes.  
“The stakes are higher than in normal medicine. I simply cannot do this in good conscience.”

“Doctor, when you are at the kind of position in the world where I am, ignoring the protests of your own conscience comes very naturally. You can imagine only too easily, I’m sure, how easy it is for me to ignore the qualms of your conscience,” hissed Mycroft, mentally reaching out for the Animus that was studded in his cufflinks.

“Do you know who I am and how important it is that you do not, um, delve too deeply into the workings of my mind?” He stared to get a feel for her emotional centres. He wanted to Storm her apprehension towards him, add in a slightly enhanced sense of awe and respect too, for good measure; he also searched for her courage and passion centres. He would Suppress those emotions.

However, just as he had located the part of her psyche that held apprehension and fear, he sensed that his Animus reserves were running quite low. There was enough Animus to effectively manipulate only one of those emotions.

Mycroft was the one of the best Cristveggen in the world, and he got there by a careful study of the human psyche. He could not simply Suppress or Storm only one emotion and _hope_ to get away with it. Animus-assisted emotional manipulation was a very tricky art. It had to seem natural or else the human mind would suspect and would refuse to be manipulated. He cursed his luck and his nightmares. His tensed and nervous brain was too preoccupied with his nightmares to notice his low Animus reserves. He had no choice but to just continue onwards and try and get her to give him the medicines he needed without any fuss.

“All right then, Mr McCarthy, in that case, I think that our discussion here is at an end.” She began ruffling through her papers again. She was certainly irritated, but made quite a good show of hiding it.

Mycroft began thinking quickly. He weighed the pros and cons of consenting to let her treat him the way she wanted. He decided that he had best agree to one session and get his medicines, for refusing her would mean at least a few days’ wait. Who knew what other debacle would happen in the meanwhile?

“Uhm, Doctor. I have had a little change of heart. You are, after all, the expert in these matters. I’m sure you have my best intentions at heart. Please accept my apology and let us continue with this session.” Mycroft looked at her, looking quite convincingly apologetic. Faking emotions and facial expressions came naturally to him after all these years.

She looked at him sternly for a while before finally saying, “All right then, Mr McCarthy, if you would make yourself comfortable on the chair there, we will begin our session.”

What happened next was a huge question in Mycroft’s brain. One moment he was sitting in a large cushioned chair, pressing his hand against her’s, staring at her forehead and reciting the English alphabet backwards- and the next he was sitting in the chair, his arms by his side. He had broken a cold sweat. He could vaguely recall seeing the fight that had happened all those years ago that had caused him all those problems, problems that he was still grappling with now. He vaguely recalled her asking, prodding very carefully, about the details of his nightmares. He was fighting two impulses simultaneously.

The first impulse was to just jump in the midst of that fight and end it all, finishing them both. He knew that was impossible, for this was, in all probability, just a dream. It was no longer real. The other impulse was to hide these visions from the intruder who was poking and prodding around in the most secret part of his memories. Before he could think about what he was doing, his subconscious mind lashed out at the intruder.

It is often said that we do not have a true estimate of how powerful our subconscious minds are. That day Mycroft Holmes saw, first hand, just how powerful his subconscious mind was. When he came around, he saw his psychiatrist slumped in her chair, unconscious. He looked down at his cufflinks and saw that the Animus studs had turned almost jet black. He did not fully recollect what had just happened, but he could very well guess what had transpired.

When she attempted to gain access to the deepest sections of Mycroft’s vulnerable mind, his subconscious mind drew upon the energy of the very last Animus molecule. It hit the intruder with such a blindly powerful Suppressive blow on _all_ her emotions, that it was a miracle she was even alive. Mycroft had, before this incident, only ever postulated and theorised about what would happen to a regular human being’s mind and body if he had ever levelled such a powerful blow on all their emotions at once, not choosing to channel or focus the energy onto one particular emotion. Now that he saw it, he was terrified at the result.

He had a team of his very best Cristveggen Memory Cleaners come in and remove every last bit of information about that session from her mind. He kept tabs on her ever since, trying to find out what became of her over the years.

He was interested in John’s nightmares. This often happened to him in the study. Whenever he focussed on solving one problem, he would instinctively get clues or hints towards solving the others. And his instincts said that he had better keep a close eye on John’s nightmares and the progress of his psychiatric treatment.

He called up Anthea and asked her to keep the Mercedes ready early the next morning, by 7 o’clock maybe. It was time to pay Doctor Molly Hooper a visit after all these years.

 

***

 

He put on a fresh suit and a picked out a set of platinum Animus-stud cufflinks from the drawer in his study, stepping into the Mercedes Benz E-Guard. Anthea waited for him inside, working on her Blackberry. He did not want to think about anything other than his impending meeting with the lady he had accidentally nearly killed a few years ago.

London in the morning looked quite nice, Mycroft always thought. Like a very old beast just waking up for yet another day in its long life. It was not tired of living, not yet, but it knew that it had probably faced all that could possibly be thrown at it. From bombings and terror attacks to stampedes when a local football team would win a hotly contested derby match, it had seen it all. Mycroft liked to see himself in the old beast.

Before he knew it, they were pulling up into an empty parking lot on Clayton Road in Hayes. It was a narrow one-way street. The building he was looking for was called Sheringham Court. He went inside and made his way to Flat Number 7. He had asked Anthea to call Doctor Hooper and inform her that he wanted to pay her a visit as early as possible that day.

He rang the doorbell and it was answered by the sweet-faced and mild-mannered Doctor Molly Hooper. She opened the door with the door chain done.

“Hello?” Molly smiled, a question in her eyes.

“Good morning Doctor Hooper, my name is Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock Holmes’ elder brother. I’m sure my secretary Anthea called you yesterday to inform you that I wanted to visit you.” Mycroft said, smiling a charming smile.

“Oh yes. I’m sorry. Please do come in,” exclaimed Molly, undoing the door chain and opening the door all the way.

This time around Mycroft did not take any chances with her. Almost as soon as he was inside he began working on her emotion centres. He began searching for her comfort centre, he would need to Storm that to some extent. In addition to being comfortable, he needed Molly to be in some awe of him. He began to simultaneously search for her fear centre and was surprised to notice it simmering ever so slightly. It recognised his touch, even after all these years.

He carefully and gradually began Storming her feeling of comfort, and even more slowly, he began Storming her feeling of fear of this man who had invited himself into her house. He had to be extremely careful. He could not create new feelings, all he could do was simply enhance pre-existing ones. If he got the balance between fear and comfort wrong, he would either make her too comfortable and not fearful enough, thereby creating the possibility that she would ignore his advice. If he made her too fearful and uncomfortable, that would be useless too, as she would focus more on her fear of this unknown man than on his words.

“I’m sure you know Sherlock pretty well. He loves to haunt St. Bart’s for his, um, work.” Mycroft looked at her, looking for any hint of happiness or joy at the mention of his brother. He saw a small gleam in her eyes and pounced on it. He Suppressed her feeling of fear a little bit, and Stormed her feeling of trust towards Sherlock and, by extension towards his brother, himself.  
  
“He mentioned you a couple of times when talking about his work.” The important thing with these kinds of manipulations, Mycroft had determined over the years, was to ensure one’s statements were laced with truths and half-truths. Lie too much and one tends to run the risk of blowing one’s cover.

“Oh, is that so? Well, I just help him out with odd jobs whenever he is around, really. It’s not like I spend a lot of time with him.” Molly got up quickly to fetch the kettle.

Mycroft could sense that the moment was right. She was feeling open enough to talk about Sherlock and the bad simile of a relationship with him. “Indeed. Well, I want to meet you and talk about helping his flatmate and friend, Doctor John Watson. I’m sure you’ve met him too.” Mycroft took his cup from her. Nothing beat tea early in the morning. He took a sip and sighed, “Oh this is quite good, Doctor Hooper.”

“Please don’t call me ‘Doctor’. That title is merely a notional one now. I’ve given up on my practice.” Molly shrugged, sipping her tea. She looked away in the distance. She seemed to be trying to recall something, but could not get close to doing so.

Mycroft knew that this line of pursuit was dangerous. She should not be allowed to scratch anywhere near the scar where the memory of that fateful day was.  
  
“Yes, so I have heard. I thought that maybe I could talk you into making an exception in John’s case. We could really do with some discreet and proficient help from someone we could trust.” He quickly, but gently, Stormed her memories of being a psychiatry student, of the times she had learning and training before and whilst on the job. He also Stormed her sense of self-satisfaction and self-esteem. He could visibly see the change in her, he thought. Just to be sure, he mildly Suppressed her self-doubt, although not too much, lest he arouse any suspicions. He saw that she clearly was thinking it over seriously.

“Well, since it is John, I just wanted to know, as a friend I mean, why does he need psychiatric help?” Molly asked. Mycroft could see that despite her newfound sense of self-belief, she was quite hesitant to take up a case. He thought she probably feared she might botch it up.

“Doctor Hooper, John has only just returned from active duty on the frontlines of one of the most volatile and dangerous battlegrounds in the world. Surely you understand that he has some trouble putting that trauma behind him.” Mycroft said reassuringly. It was important that she not think that it was too difficult a case for her to take up after so many years of being out of touch. And now he moved in for the final maneuverer. He Stormed her feeling of familiarity and affection for Sherlock and thus, by extension, John, and Suppressed her general fear back to its original state and her self-doubt until it was almost non-existent.

“Oh well, I think I should do everything I can to help him. Yes, I will help John. When and where should I start?” Molly asked, drinking her tea.

Mycroft leaned back, satisfied. The difficult bit was over. “Thank you very much, Doctor Hooper. I will ask John to get in touch with you later today. I was thinking that perhaps you could conduct your sessions right here, in your house. It is a nice and comfortable place. Far away from prying eyes. We do want to keep the whole thing discreet, as I mentioned earlier.”

“Of course. I think right here would suit me just fine.” Molly beamed at him.

Mycroft smiled back. He stopped Suppressing and Storming the various emotions gradually. He then Stormed her sense of respect for him (he had, after all, just managed to rekindle her love for psychiatry) “Doctor Hooper, I have just one small request to make of you, I do hope it is not too much to ask.” He gently Suppressed her desire to rebel against express commands. “Could you please tell me the details of the sessions that you have with John? I am very concerned about his well-being. He is one of the few good things to happen to my brother. However, I am afraid my relationship with both of them is not one where either of them would tell me about such things.” He Stormed her helpfulness for that instant, working on it endlessly until she smiled.

“Why yes, surely Mycroft Holmes.” Molly replied, taking the cup from his hands.

Mycroft smiled, satisfied with the progress of this meeting, as he got up to leave.

 

***

 

Sherlock had hoped that things would get somewhat better as the week progressed and the next session inched closer. They still touched, still slept in each other’s arms every night but when they woke up, John’s body would be curled up away from Sherlock’s, right at his corner and his place under Sherlock’s chin would just be palpable and uncomfortable silence. Sometimes, John would wake up to a cold cup of tea on the kitchen counter and a lack of Sherlock in the flat. When, earlier, the television had been a mere distraction, now it was a constant reminder that they weren’t talking as much as before. They fidgeted more around each other, like they would rather be in someone else’s skin, breathing someone else’s air.

Their journey from 221B to Molly’s house the second time around was not much tolerable than before either. There were a million words spoken by the eyes that didn’t meet, the stiff kisses, of the lack of test tubes tinkering or shoulders resolutely not brushing against each other as they walked side by side, the pavement uncomfortable under their conscious steps.

As was their custom, John went in and Sherlock agreed to meet him after an hour. The signs of Molly’s life in her flat were more noticeable this time or perhaps, John was less nervous than before. There were three deep gashes on the side of the couch adjacent to his, a huge flower vase somehow covering the demise of a decent piece of furniture. Soon Molly came out of her study, tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling warmly at him. John returned the smile but was a bit taken aback at the change in the air between them. To John, it was almost like meeting with an old mate from school who had pushed your head down the toilet once and was now passing you the jam jar on the breakfast table. Something had moved in her, from their first session to this one.

“How are you feeling today, John?” She asked, offering him his usual seat opposite her and playing with the left sleeve of her shirt. She was nervous, John mused. He smiled at her, trying to make her feel comfortable but not knowing the reason as to why it was happening.

They started the same way as before with John leaning back on the recliner and fitting perfectly on it, like it was made for him. The surface squeaked as he adjusted himself, the smell of newly polished leather overpowering. Soon, she was speaking in a quiet tone, almost whispering, like at the bed side of a sick person. And John followed the voice that had been at the back of his mind even in the repetitive (and now memorised) nightmare of his.

“What do you see? Take me through it.”

And he did.

_He was looking at a scene from the top and if he tried hard enough, he could change the perspective. He could be looking at it from a lens, for all he knew, and with a little effort, he slowly lowered in on the blurry sight under him. Immediately, as he concentrated more on the spectacle, blinding light overpowered him and he was forced to shield his eyes. But he didn’t have any eyes. Or hands. Or a body._

_This wasn’t his memory. This wasn’t his nightmare._

_In an attempt to focus more, John inched closer to the two lone objects—no people-- under his invisible cloud, speaking words that were loud enough for the world under them to hear but still, not reaching John’s ears. It could be because he didn’t have any ears, just his mind and his will. For a second, he wondered what would happen if they happened to look up._

_But the figures were oblivious to any company except each other’s. They were standing on either ends of a slightly glowing platform that looked wispy and too fragile to be supporting their weight. There was something in their hands but John knew that focussing on that would take all the effort out of him. He didn’t know how that knowledge had come to him in such a short span of time spent at this scene but he just did. And so, he refrained, focussing instead on the two people._

_The smaller man wore a black suit and John knew that it was Westwood. The lapels were immaculately done and when the man smiled, his obsidian eyes looked even deader, if possible. He was holding something in his hand but from John’s view, it could be anything. He tried to steer closer but he couldn’t and his breath started catching up on him, so he gave up and focussed on the other man instead._

_This was a familiar face, albeit an extremely younger version of it. It was the same broad forehead with slicked back hair, donning an expensive looking three piece suit and the chain from the pocket watch glinting innocently. His umbrella was absent from his person but when John examined the visible surroundings closely, he saw a gleaming sword protrude from the same hooked handle John had seen swinging in its owner’s grasp many a times._

_A look passed between the two formidable men – demented and maniacal from one and pleading but resigned from the other and John was blinded again, the ground rippling under his feet. As he fell down, physical intangibility saving him from a fatal consequence, he heard the walls collapsing before he saw them, the scene blanking out like his film reel was rolling closed to a loud finish._

He didn’t know how long he had been knocked out but from the troubled look on Molly’s face, it had been enough to cause a stir. The practice from his pre-appointment nightmares was almost programmed into his head now as he started breathing through his nose and not his abdomen. Molly was surprised by how calm John was. She had, of course, heard every word of what had happened inside John’s head and was still reeling from it. John was either taking it much better than her or he was just extremely good with hiding his emotions. Both of these possibilities were true to some extent.

He took the glass of water she offered him, trying not to betray the tumult of emotions in his mind. Before she could insist that he rest more, he got up and assured her that he was fine, this was usual for him and he could take care of it. However, she was only relieved when she saw Sherlock outside the study, pacing back and forth.

He drank in John’s appearance – his shirt sticking to his body, lips white and eyes unfocussed. John kept running his tongue over his lips and the moment the door closed behind them, Sherlock pinned John against the wall beside the door and attacked his mouth in an almost feral manner, growling as John fisted his hands in his hair and tugged them hard, returning the kiss with equal fervour. His lips, now red and kiss-swollen, latched on to his neck, fingers working to remove the scarf as quickly as possible and he marked Sherlock amidst low growls.

“You’ve become better at this- kissing.” Sherlock just moaned in reply.

They hoped their kisses will reveal their desperation, that it would satiate their individual guilty consciences and perhaps, break some ice. It did, and more.

When they were done with each other and knew that if they went further, they would probably end up spending the night in jail, they broke apart, grinning and straightening their clothes. John managed to wrap Sherlock’s scarf back where it belonged, strategically hiding the bite mark and still gasping from the rush of it all.

“Finally…” Sherlock managed, hands cupping John’s face, their foreheads resting together. John gave him a chaste peck on the lips, smiling and feeling much lighter. He nodded because he understood.

“I thought you had…” Sherlock just couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence as they trudged down the stairs. He looked around, feigning a search for a cab when they both knew he just needed to raise his hand for it to appear almost magically, wherever they were.

“You thought I had what?” John met his eyes when they were back inside.

“Nothing. Just…good, this is... it’s good to have you back, John.” That was all he could say, looking away and watching the scenery rush past them and perfunctorily ticking the name of corners and streets in his mind. Somewhere between their second favourite restaurant and Baker Street, John’s hand stole into his, chuckling when Sherlock gave a start. He was still not used to it, and it made John’s stomach flip.

“I know there are things that are… difficult for you right now, and you probably don’t want to share them with me, which isn’t the best of feelings, mind you, no let me finish…” he continued when John made to interrupt him.  
  
“I know we haven’t known each other long enough for you to probably trust me with what’s troubling you or even share whatever you are feeling. But I- I just want to say that I understand. I might not like it but I understand. So, yeah… you… that’s all.” He finished quietly.

They were outside their flat in a couple of minutes and that night, they played Cluedo and Sherlock threw a huge tantrum, sticking a knife through the board to the mantelpiece in a sulking fit as John shook his head and got up to do the dishes from the morning.

When he reached the last cup, Sherlock’s arms stole around his waist and he peppered light kisses around his neck, making him giggle. It almost seemed like things were back to being normal. And so, after everything was straightened and cleaned up, and Sherlock was making whiny noises, his hands were creeping inside his jumper, they went back to his bedroom and cuddled under the duvet, kissing till they fell asleep.

John woke up with the sounds of home around him, Sherlock playing the violin in the morning, indicating that he had a case on his mind and he let Bach drench his drowsy limbs and butter soft morning lungs, stretching on the bed to steal a few more minutes of sleep before wakefulness had a chance to catch up.

 

***

 

Sherlock played for an hour or so, wondering how and where he had gone wrong. He had been earnest in his confession that he understood because he wanted to give them a fair chance. But he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t expect John’s confession to come tumbling out of him. However, what gave him solace was the fact that they were sharing a bed now and Sherlock was sure that would yield some fruitful results. At least, the sneaking could come to an end. If he had to spend one more night sleeping against the hard wardrobe, he would have to see a chiropractor for his back.

But these thoughts were pushed out of his mind when John dragged himself down the stairs, all rubbery limbs and morning breath, and pinned him to the couch, hands on Sherlock’s thighs to keep him in place. Sherlock almost came with a sob, his violin still clutched in his hand.

The sound of Sherlock pleading and biting his fist as he slowly sucked him off was a noise John hoped to fill his head more than anything else.

 

***

 

_John found himself above two groups of people this time. They were standing atop a long, tall building. The men standing at the front of both these groups were snappily dressed. One figure wearing a well-cut Westwood suit in black, the other wearing a grey three piece suit with a fob watch tucked away in the jacket pocket, its gold chain just visible. The other men in both the groups were also dressed in suits. They reminded John of the kind of people who played menacing government spies in movies. The man in the black suit looked younger, hungrier for power and destruction, more maniacal. The man in the grey suit seemed older and tired._

_John had still not completely come to grips with this form of himself. He could see, hear and think as if nothing had changed, but he was without a body. Like an ethereal spirit watching over all of creation. He tried to steer his disembodied conscience closer. Again, it hurt all over his non-existent body. He held back for a moment, watching from a distance. John glanced around the men for an instant. He could not recognise the place, but he was extremely glad that he was miles away from it. There was nothing left standing as far as he could see. This building atop which these men had gathered was the only one left._

_What was this place? What was going on? And if these people have destroyed all the other buildings, what the Hell is this one made of? John couldn’t find answers to these questions, staring at the two groups of men._

_All at once, both the men in charge barked a command. John had to focus all his attention towards these men before he could hear what they said- and even then it was like a mere whisper. “Get them all! What are you waiting for?” cried the younger man. The older man had seemed almost reluctant in his command “Steady! Let them come to you, dodge all their attacks. Combine your attacks and let them have it!”_

_John noticed that the men with the younger man were charging towards the other group holding what seemed like bars of silver. He had never thought silver could be used to make weapons of war. He was even more shocked when he saw that in a matter of a few heartbeats, there had gathered a kind of a cloud of metal pieces around them from the rubble scattered on the Earth below. Once this cloud had enough metal to resemble an almost solid sphere, the men stopped marching. The cloud then rearranged itself to form a kind of a rectangular wall. This wall then began to rush at an impossibly high speed towards the older man and his band of warriors._

_The older man seemed to predict and brace for the attack for he had already issued the command- “Form up behind me quickly!!!” His men huddled close to each other behind their leader, as if his body would protect them from this wall of certain death. John was amazed to see that the wall of metal moving towards them mysteriously split into two around their leader. He was holding onto something, arms extended ahead. John tried to look closer and thought he saw the man clutching onto the shaft of the all too familiar umbrella which was open, but surely was mistaken. The more he saw, the greater his confusion grew. An umbrella protecting people from a wall of metal?_

_The men who had seemingly attacked using the metal wall were running towards the other group. As much as he had tried, a few men on the outside got hit and were either dead or dying. Then, however, something even more bizarre happened. The group of men rushing towards the older man and his band suddenly stopped dead in their tracks. It was as if they were questioning their purpose on this battlefield. All this while, the older man and his men had fanned out into a wide semicircle, at the centre of which was the younger man’s group of men. In the next moment, however, they began attacking each other. There were only 5 men left of the 30 or 40 who had initially charged on the much smaller group with the older man._

_John could not understand what was happening. Why had these men turned on each other? The 5 remaining men then charged toward the younger man, who John had assumed was their leader. In a swift motion, he took out a silver coin and by the time the rebels had covered half the distance, they were barraged by a shower of metal from the nearby rubble. This metal then quickly twisted in the air, as if yanked by invisible strings and it ripped through the older man’s remaining force._

_The two men began shouting something at each other, but it hurt John way too much to continue trying to listen in on them. The last thing John saw before fading away from the vision was the younger man jumping off the building to the Earth below._

Senses blazing, John Watson emerged from his session to find a different thought lodged in his brain. What were these people? Were they demi gods of sorts? There were so many questions brimming inside his head and no way to find answers except to explore his own psyche. The biggest question of them all, though, was why and how these things came inside his brain. Try as he might, John couldn’t unearth any connection to these people. Like sand escaping from the gaps of his finger, the memory of what he had just seen tried to desert him and chasing it too much made John double over and puke all over the carpet.

This time, he had to lean on Sherlock as they got down the stairs and hailed a cab, his mind an upturned sandglass, the grains of which were too fast for him to catch up with.

This time, Sherlock waited for the silence to break. He made tea and heard John switch on the television, sounds of news providing him a respite from his thoughts. When Sherlock glanced over, adding a dash of milk to John’s cup, he saw his friend lying face down on the cushion, toes wriggling with nervous anticipation. The sudden role reversal would have made him smile if he hadn’t known what John was doing – he was mulling things over in his head.

The tea streamed down his throat and brought some feeling back into his cold fingers. He was sure he had probably screamed during his session and he prayed that Sherlock hadn’t heard any of it and Molly… Now this was another thing that troubled him.

Molly had been recommended to him by Mycroft and at the time, the gesture had seemed friendly but now, John wondered if it was so benign, after all. He still remembered his session, although the details had almost evaporated from his mind, but he knew enough now. There was still a lot of confusion about the _how’s_ and _why’s_ of it but one thing was certain, Mycroft had everything to do with it and suddenly, the sessions didn’t seem so safe. What had he got himself into? In all this, he was only sure about one thing – he needed to find out more, even if it meant finding another way out.

“John?” Sherlock couldn’t wait any longer to break the silence that clawed at him. He had so many questions but he had also promised John that he understood his need for privacy, even if his intentions had been somewhat manipulative.

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” John muttered, reading his mind, his throat still a bit hoarse. “But I do know one thing. These sessions are doing more harm than good, and I don’t think I want them anymore.”

His tone had a certain finality to it. And also, tiredness, immense tiredness, which made Sherlock forget his vexation for a while, arms reaching habitually to pull him inside himself. His curiosity made his eyes itch, he wanted information but he was surprised by the fact that more than that, he wanted the slight form in his arms to be secure. This was a revelation to him as well, and it made him run his fingers gently along John scalp, small circles reaching inwards to his temple and then out. The act calmed him down and John too, if the soft sounds escaping him were to be believed.

He really wanted to tell everything to Sherlock but then, did he? He just wasn’t sure what it was that made him hold the words back. It’s not like he hadn’t tried but every time he decided to bring it up, the words would gulp themselves down. Like now, when his limbs felt pliable and liquid in Sherlock’s arms, there was nothing else he wanted to do. To just let it all out and go back to his spot under Sherlock’s chin that was safe and scratched his forehead a little. If he could, he would pour it out – Mycroft Holmes, the other maniacal man, the rush of blood, and of course, the sounds of burning - and let Sherlock deal with it.

Somewhere during that time, Sherlock leaned back and comfortably pulled John on top of him, fingers never leaving his body, touching somewhere, anywhere, telling him that he was there if John wanted to talk, that he was there if he just wanted him. There were no kisses needed, no words of comfort befitted their situation. There, on that old couch with a cigarette burn at the back, they could have been abandoned boats and no one would have cared. The seas weren’t calm but the wind was dead.

Around 3 am, Sherlock’s hand came out of John’s jumper, impossibly warm and his mind full of details of the scar on his shoulder that he had been feeling for hours now, John’s snores providing a befitting background score. He reached for his phone in the pocket and carefully slipped out from under John, acting on the decision that he had made.

 

***

 

Molly Hooper’s life was a chaotic mess, in her own opinion. There were some bits where she could swear that she had been possessed by someone or something because some of her actions which had seemed right at the moment had turned out to be pretty bad.

The decision to take on John’s case had been based on friendship and concern for his state and yet, her own behaviour after her first session with him had been rude, to say the least. That wasn’t how she spoke to her patients, even though it had been a long time since she had seen one. She had felt a cold suspicion towards him, without any basis of thought or action, except perhaps, the indifference John felt towards his own ordeal. She knew enough of humans and the human brain to know when a person was faking calmness and when they were really and utterly calm, almost as if they didn’t care. Sherlock always assumed Molly was ignorant of the way he manipulated her but she really wasn’t. She just liked the man, would even go on to say that she harboured a small crush on him. He was just that kind of person and yes, there were times when she had to bury her face in her hands at the embarrassment she felt at her juvenile appreciation of someone who clearly wasn’t interested but she just could not help it.

Sitting alone in her flat after having spent close to 2 hours cleaning the carpet in her study, she re-examined the reasons at having taken up John Watson as her patient. What almost screamed out for her attention was the other thing – reporting things to Mycroft Holmes on a regular basis. Today had been one such meeting and even though she was supposed to tell the man everything she knew, she found herself holding certain details back. Like the fact that John had seen Mycroft in his nightmares which, frankly, was more baffling to her than anything else and made Mycroft’s “concern” and “care” speech unbelievably devious. She had held back quite a lot from him today and had to smoke a cigarette just to control the shaking in her hands when he left. She didn’t like lying, but she was good at it.

She went through the list of reasons again – he is Sherlock’s friend and their might be something more than just friendship between them, he needed someone trusting and discreet for this, he needed Molly’s help. And yet, these were some reasons which found their basis in most appeals from old patients to friends and family that came to her on a monthly basis. She rejected them all without a second thought but she had taken this one. Why? Who-- _What_ was Mycroft Holmes?

Molly was dreaming of sitting on a sandy beach and as she reached out to touch the waters, her phone rang. Sherlock’s voice sounded urgent and to the point, and she was used to his manner by now. They planned to meet at Dorset café the other day, neither of them stating out loud that the phones were probably tapped.

 

***

 

When John opened his eyes, the cushion was still a bit cold under him and the familiar long fingers were absent from his scar. He missed them and as he decided to look around to look for Sherlock, he heard Sherlock’s voice, speaking quietly and shifted just enough to listen better. His neck was killing him and he felt an urgent need to stretch it but he couldn’t. Not right now.

Sherlock said, “Thank you, Molly. I will see you at 7 tomorrow evening at-” and John couldn’t quite hear a lot of stuff after that, but he had heard enough to decide to leave for an innocuous walk at 6 the next day. Suddenly, he wasn’t feeling so guilty for keeping things from Sherlock because, clearly, the other man was doing the same.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“Sir, is this a good time?” asked Jìl, stepping tentatively into Moran’s private quarters on the penultimate floor of the basilica. Moran was busy trying to figure out how to deal with the problem one of his Cristveggen Memory Cleaners had presented to him.

One of Slahi’s men operating out of Pretoria had reportedly gotten into some trouble with the local authorities when he got into a bar fight with someone a few nights ago. The man apparently went into such a fit of rage that he lost control of his powers. Soon he had begun attacking a couple of men at the bar with the hollow metal rods that lined the ceiling frieze. The people at the bar were stunned to see the pieces of metal rip themselves free from the ceiling and begin beating the two men to a pulp.

Moran was at his wits end in dealing with this problem. He needed to have at least five of his best Cristveggen Memory Cleaners to even have an outside shot of successfully getting to everyone who had seen or heard of this debacle. South Africa was currently not that high on his priority list and therefore, he had only a small detachment of his troops there. So he had asked Arol to gather some of her best Memory Cleaners and head there as soon as possible. But their problems were not to be remedied that easily. Three of their best Memory Cleaners were engaged elsewhere so they had to resort to other, less proficient people. Now, he had just finished talking to her via their mental link, enquiring about her progress on the case.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them tiredly. “Yes Jìl, have a seat,” Moran sighed.

Jìl seemed a bit excited about something.

“Sir, the Ma’a Toto’a has shown a change,” he eagerly exclaimed. “We have been monitoring it constantly, as you have instructed us to. Initially, the rate at which the crystal was filling was quite slow. Almost too slow to tell. It took at least a day to notice any change in the amount of smoke. Even then, one had to really strain one’s eyes to observe it. The smoke was too deep in the crystal for the lasers to give any accurate readings for the rate at which it was expanding. But over the past couple of days the rate has increased, Sir. It is still quite slow, but three days ago it had expanded enough for us to use lasers with any measure of accuracy. The visual and electronic measurements are in agreement. The rate at which the Ma’a Toto’a is smoking up has undoubtedly increased by a small fraction.”

Moran smiled at Jìl. “You have done well Jìl. Go on back to your chancel and maintain your vigil. I will inform the Lord of your reports and will tell you of any changes that we expect you to make.”

This was, beyond a doubt, excellent news. The sooner the Ma’a Toto’a filled up, the sooner they could put their plan into action. Moran ought to be jubilant at the news. And yet, for some reason, he was not. He could not quite explain it to himself, but somehow he felt hollow and incomplete. He was happy, quite obviously. He was happy to see that their Grand Plan was taking shape. Happy that soon they would be powerful beyond imagination. But somehow, the happiness did not quite reach one tiny corner of his heart.

He did not dwell over this for too long. He dismissed Jìl and made his way up to the Throne Chamber. Moriarty was there, sitting on a chair a distance away from the throne. On a desk in front of him, he had hundreds of papers and books. Some were Moriarty’s own notes, some others were Moran’s words and most were either handwritten accounts from history or books describing things of interest to them. They were working on a way by which they could use the Ma’a Toto’a when its time would come.

Moriarty was too busy with his work to notice Moran enter. The metal conveyor belt was not moving. Moran walked up to his master and cleared his throat, wishing not to encroach on him if he were too busy. Moriarty looked up from his work in a few seconds.

“My Lord, there is good news. The Ma’a Toto’a has begun smoking up faster,” Moran smiled at Moriarty.

“Excellent news, Moran,” exclaimed Moriarty, his face lighting up. His deep dark eyes stood out in his white face, like a strong flame that burned black. “Have your Cristveggen been able to measure the rate scientifically? I remember something about being able to use lasers,” enquired Moriarty, pushing the other chair, the one Moran usually used, towards him indicating him to sit.

“Yes my Lord,” said Moran sitting down and leaning against the back of the comfortable arm-chair. He liked sitting alone with Moriarty for extended durations. Despite the number of years they’d spent with each other, Moran always found that there was some nugget of knowledge that Moriarty could give him. Moran continued, “The lasers are carefully designed to emit monochromatic light at eight hundred nanometres. A parabolic sensor with the Ma’a Toto’a at its focus then detects the photons bouncing off the smoke in the crystal and a measuring device converts the intensity of the light signal to the density of the smoke,” he explained.

“Interesting. Very well done, Moran. What about the Pretoria matter? How is that shaping up?” Moriarty’s obsidian eyes stared at Moran’s grey ones. He did not like it when Moran did not manage things well, or when there was inappropriate behaviour amongst the ranks. The Lord was quick in his anger and quick in his forgiveness, but you had to earn the latter sincerely.

“Yes, my Lord. The matter is being dealt with as we speak. Arol and her men are on their way to Pretoria to Clean people’s memories and tie up any loose ends,” Moran replied promptly, “you need not worry overmuch about that, Sir.”

“All right. Excellent. Everything seems to be going according to plan then,” Moriarty looked towards the notes and books on the table and sighed, “although admittedly this work is tiresome. I have looked at all possible scientific data that is even remotely relevant to our predicament and I cannot come up with a solution. By the looks of it, there is no scientific way to enhance the size of the energy field of the Ma’a Toto’a.”

Moran scratched his head and ruffled through the papers, looking for his last notes. “Well, we should up the ante then, I guess. The Ma’a Toto’a is smoking up faster now, though admittedly not at a lightening pace. We should have a solution to this problem by the time it fills up.”

“And how far away is that, by your calculations?” asked Moriarty.

“At the current rate at which it is smoking up, by our calculations it should be completely smoked up in about three months,” Moran sighed. He did not like the annoyingly slow pace at which this stage of the operation was going. However, at least the crystal was smoking up faster than it was earlier. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe it would be done earlier than they had predicted.

“Fair enough. We would probably need all that time,” Moriarty said, picking up a book that had notes by Nikola Tesla.

“What do you think accelerated the smoking up?” asked Moran after he had found his notes from the last time he worked with his master.

“Oh loads of things, to be honest. It could be any one or more of a multitude of cues or stimuli that could have done this,” Moriarty did not look up from his book. It looked as if he had found a slightly relevant note in Tesla’s book. He read the page intently as he continued, “Basically, the Ma’a Toto’a is smoking up because there is a connection building between this one and its pair in the other world. This connection is building up because we have our spy in there, who is placed as close as is possible to the Ma’a Toto’a of that world. As he gets closer to the Ma’a Toto’a physically, and understands his role in the plan mentally, the connection gets stronger. So, as you can imagine, there can be a whole host of things that can increase the rate at which it is smoking up.”

“Yes. Yes, that is quite interesting. As you said, there can be so many things that could enhance the rate at which it smokes up.” Moran replied.

This set Moran thinking. If events in that world could influence the rate at which the crystal smoked up, then could he perhaps engineer circumstances and situations in this world that could produce the same effect? Their spy was, after all, from this world. Maybe he could pay the spy’s wife a visit. If he tried to reach out into her mind when it was vulnerable, he might be able to touch his mind through it. That would undoubtedly enhance the connection. However, making her mind vulnerable so that he could use it to good effect would take more than a simple knock on the head or shot of chloroform or even hypnosis. He wanted to ensure that she was completely incapacitated so that both her conscious and subconscious minds were inactive. It was absolutely essential to him that the rate at which the Ma’a Toto’a was filling up be accelerated for the wait was driving him crazy. If the crystal was indeed a method of communication between two points in space and time, then he was sure that it would not take such a long time for a connection to get established. He simply had to quicken the pace.

Before he could work on this matter, however, he had the matter of how to enhance the crystal’s energy field to a sizeable area to address.

 

***

 

Moran was born into a family of serfs in a town on the outskirts of Lyon. His was a carefree childhood, despite being a child of a serf family in Charlemagne’s Holy Roman Empire. His earliest memory was that of working and playing in the fields of their landlord, Lord Alaic, in the hot summer day. He had often heard stories of people who could Will metal objects and make them move around as their mind pleased. These people were called “Eisentreibs”, a word derived from Theotiscam. Owing to their powers, they were devastating in a medieval battlefield with all its metal armour and weaponry. There were also stories of witches and hags and evil men who could ‘get into one’s mind’ and make people their puppets. These people were called “Cristveggen”, a word derived from Romance.

Like most children of his day, Moran did not know which of his stories were based on real life incidents and which were just stories. One of his friends was Arnulf, Lord Alaic’s son. Once when Arnulf brought a piece of Lucrum, claiming it to be an extremely valuable piece of metal and when the other boys ridiculed and laughed at him, a fight broke out between Moran’s friends. Arnulf flew into a fit of rage and managed to hurl a spade and a pickaxe at three other boys. When the incident was reported to his father, Lord Alaic shipped him off to a special school where he would be trained in the battle arts of Eisentreibs.

This was five years after the incident that revealed Lord Arnulf as an Eisentreib. Although there was not a lot of interaction between the two, Moran was the closest Lord Arnulf had in his old village to a friend. This was partly due to the fear that he inspired in young men of his age after that incident and partly due to his own newfound sense of aloofness.

One day Lord Arnulf, having inherited his father’s estate and slaves upon his death, came to meet Moran when he was tilling the fields. He beckoned him over. Moran walked over. “Seb,” said Lord Arnulf, smiling slightly, “I have decided to sell my lands and my people to Lord Mercador. I will be leaving soon. I will fight in the Emperor’s army and conquer the Danes.”

Moran did not know what he, a lowly serf who just happened to be the Lord’s childhood friend, could say to that. Lord Arnulf was a decent person. He was better than some landlords and worse than some others. Their friendship had finished the day he was taken away to study in the military school.

“Wait Seb,” Lord Arnulf touched his shoulder, “I just want to give you something. As a parting gift, if you will.” He took out a necklace and handed it to Moran. “Please accept it.”

It was a gold necklace with a crystal pendant hanging off it. It was a clear, colourless crystal that was about half as big as a man’s palm. It was cut and shaped so it shone brightly. There was something inside the crystal. At its very heart, there was a little dark grey mass, as if someone blew smoke into the crystal whilst it was forming deep inside the Earth.

“My Lord, I cannot accept this. This is too precious a gift,” exclaimed Moran, his eyes widening.

“Oh come now Seb,” Lord Arnulf said, taking Moran’s hand and firmly shaking it, “Like I said, this is a parting gift. My token of appreciation to perhaps the only person in this God forsaken village who was a friend.”

Before he could protest any further, Lord Arnulf turned away from Moran. He would never see the man in his life again. He felt strange. He was not particularly friendly towards Lord Arnulf. And he knew that Lord Arnulf knew that too. And yet here he stood, clutching a gold necklace with a crystal pendant in it. He wore the necklace and hid it under his shirt.

He was twenty years old now and was thinking about apprenticing as a skilled artisan, perhaps a carpenter or sculptor. His family was very poor and severely debt ridden. Originally his grandfather owed a debt to a feudal lord in the neighbouring province. But he died without having repaid the debt amount and so the debt passed on to his sons, Moran’s father and his uncles. Lord Alaic purchased Moran’s father for a share of the debt his father owed. He was a newly promoted feudal lord and needed to own peasants and slaves to improve his social standing. Now Lord Arnulf had given Moran’s family to another budding feudal lord, Lord Mercador.

By the age of twenty, Moran had understood that his place in this world was that of a lowly peasant. The debt repayment system was designed so that no family could ever pay off even the interest on their loans, let alone return the actual amount. He wanted to help his family as best as he could. Wages as a serf farmer were poor at best, considering the preposterous loan amounts being charged. So he felt that he could try and hasten the family’s way out of their predicament by becoming an apprentice at a carpenter’s or sculptor’s workshop.

As he went back home that fateful day, after having accepted Lord Arnulf’s gift, he was thinking about how to go about getting the apprenticeship. When he reached home, he showed his mother Lord Arnulf’s gift.

“Oh Lord!!! That is a very expensive gift, Seb.” She exclaimed.

“Yes, I know mother,” he replied, drinking a sip of cool water, “And the strangest thing is that both Arnie and I know that we were not that close as kids. I’m guessing he wants me to sell the chain and buy our way out of this drudgery.”

“Hmm. That may be true. I’ve heard that this Lord Mercador is not very popular amongst his serfs. Works them twice as hard and for half as much, is what I’ve heard,” his mother mused.

“They say that about everyone, mother,” replied Moran, irritably.

The door to their hut opened and his two brothers and their father stepped in.

“Look father, Lord Arnulf gave me this before leaving,” Moran held out the gold necklace with the crystal pendant. His father eyed the pendant nervously.

“Why was he insulting you so?” his father demanded.

“What?” asked a confused Moran, “What insult? What do you mean?”

“Look at that crystal, you imp,” exclaimed his father, “It’s an Animus crystal. It is valuable, true, but it is used by those cursed Cristveggen for their devilish acts.”

Moran did not know what to make of this statement. “But he just gave it to me as a gift. Like you said, it’s valuable. We can sell this chain to pay our way out of our debt,” he explained.

His father and eldest brother shared a look. His brother tried to explain, “Seb, I know that Lord Arnulf probably gave it to you with good intentions. But father and I cannot use any money that comes from that crystal. It’s just black luck, is all that it is.”

Moran could not understand. “But how does it matter? It’s not like we’re keeping the money. We’re just going to take the money and give it entirely to Lord Mercador to earn our freedom,” he said, waving his arms in exasperation.

His father’s patience snapped, “What part of having nothing to do with that damned cursed crystal do you not understand, you idiot child?” he shouted, “Now go and throw that damn thing away before I do it myself.”

Moran had always been afraid of his father’s rage. He had never once struck Moran or his brothers or mother, but he would get so worked up with his rage that physical beatings would always seem just around the corner. In fact, once his eldest brother tried to strike his father down. Even then he had only raised his hands to defend himself, not to attack anyone. But despite all of these incidents, Moran had a certain reservation, and fear even, when dealing with his father when angry.

Despite his sudden fear (or perhaps because of it), his hand clasping the crystal, he felt something building up inside of him. It was like a surge of energy, like nothing he had ever felt before. In addition to having this surge of energy build up within him, he could also feel certain emotions in the people around him.

In his mind he could feel his father’s rage issuing forth from his father’s psyche like a hot geyser. From his brothers he could feel fear, spreading forth like a cold wave. From his mother, he could feel twin emotions- a wave of fear colder even than those from his brothers, and a sense of helplessness or resignation to her fate that felt like a bed of quicksand. For a moment he did not know what was happening. He did not even know how he knew these various feelings and emotions by their mental touch upon his psyche.

However, he did not waste time thinking about what was happening. He tried to douse his father’s anger by pressing a wave of cool calmness against him. It was not that he was absorbing his father’s anger or that he was pressing against the hot geyser of anger with his own cool patience. It felt different. It felt like he could somehow touch the hot anger and convert bits of that anger into calmness. As if his touch, though not cold itself, could somehow cool it down.

At the same time, he could take bits of the cold fear waves and warm them up, converting the cold waves into a warm lake of comfort lapping against his psyche. With his mother’s shaky sense of helplessness, he touched the quagmire and converted bits of the treacherous bog into firm and solid bricks of self-confidence. Thus, bit by bit, he managed to manipulate the emotions of the people around him.

However, this was more like one of those moments when one sees a precious vase fall from a shelf in slow motion. One gets the feeling that if one were to just exert oneself that extra bit, one could catch the vase before it hit the ground and shattered whereas, in fact, there really is nothing one can physically do to prevent the vase from shattering. Although he felt like he took a lot of time to soothe his father’s anger, his brothers’ and mother’s fear and build-up his mother’s courage and self-confidence, all of this happened, in fact, in a matter of a handful of seconds, at most. This left everyone, including Moran himself, quite stunned. They did not quite understand what happened. As they looked around at each other, their eyes questioning, looking for explanations, they soon realised who might have been to blame.

“You, boy. It was you, wasn’t it?” demanded his father.

Everybody turned towards Moran, who simply stood there stupefied.

“Answer me. It was you, wasn’t it?” his father demanded again.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Moran replied, shaking.

“Don’t lie to me!!!” thundered his father. “I want you to throw that damn thing away right now or else I will throw you out along with it!!!” His father’s rage returned.

Moran bolted from the cottage. He went straight to the church in the village and sat on the pew at the very front. The priest of the church, Father Armand, came out from behind the apse.

“What is it, child? Why are you scared? And why aren’t you at home? It’s quite late and it’s dark outside,” intoned the man. His voice was soft but strong, built to reverberate around his church’s walls.

“It’s nothing you can help with, Father Armand,” said a dejected Moran. He did not want to throw away what he saw as their only chance to get out of their miserable lives. His father and brothers’ objections made no sense to him.

“Maybe I cannot, but surely the Lord can. Come now, dear boy, tell me what’s plaguing your mind.” Father Armand said, coming to sit beside him.

“It’s this, Father,” said Moran, taking out the necklace with the crystal pendant, “Lord Arnulf gave it to me before leaving and handing us over to Lord Mercador. I reckon we can sell this necklace and buy our way out of this horrible life. But my father and brothers would hear nothing of it. They say that this crystal is something called Animus or something-”

“Animus, my dear child, it is an Animus crystal,” corrected Father Armand softly, “Quite valuable too.”

“Oh yes, Animus. Anyway, they say that they do not want anything to do with any money that comes from this crystal,” explained a frustrated Moran, “They say that this crystal is used by Cristveggens to perform their dark arts and hence, it is cursed. They want nothing to do with cursed money.”

“Well,” sighed Father Armand, “they are not entirely wrong. The crystal is the source of the Cristveggens’ powers. But it is no more cursed for being so than a sword is for being a weapon in the hands of a warrior. Perhaps, it is less cursed than a sword.”

Moran looked up at Father Armand, “I do not understand, Father.”

The Father cleared his throat and leaned back, his eyes glazed over as if he were reliving days that passed centuries ago. He explained, “Many years ago, before the current Emperor, Emperor Charlemagne ruled all of Europe, there was a powerful king who unified all of the Frankish kingdoms. This king was called King Clovis the First. He was a mighty warrior and a well-loved king.

“He was born in an era where not a lot was known about the world apart from the fact that the ancient and powerful Roman Empire was all but dead and that nothing but anarchy ruled the land. Every king in every small kingdom vied for power after the Romans were gone. Where others saw despair, Clovis saw opportunity. He conquered all of the Frankish kingdoms and united them under one banner in a span of twenty eight years. He did this not just with the might of his sword, but with the might of Lucrum.”

“Lucrum is a silvery metal that is surprisingly strong and fairly lightweight. In addition to being such a valuable metal for weaponry and armoury simultaneously, its value was significantly enhanced when people found out that some people could use Lucrum to move metal objects around.”

“Like how Arnie did all those years ago,” exclaimed Moran. He did not understand where this story was going, but he wanted to be distracted.

“Yes, precisely so, my dear child. These men and women who could use Lucrum to move metal objects around are now called ‘Eisentreibs’. They would have been called something else in those days, but we know nothing of that. Their abilities made them almost invulnerable soldiers. The stronger your abilities as an Eisentreib were, the more sought after you were as a soldier. And there was no Eisentreib stronger and more potent on the battlefield than King Clovis the First himself. Once he was ambushed by his enemies in a forest. It is said that he managed to kill them all without even drawing his blade or stepping off his horse.

“However, like magically enhanced and invulnerable soldiers, there was another breed of special people. These men are now called the ‘Cristveggen’. Unlike the Eisentreibs, the abilities of a Cristveggen are not physical in nature. They have been known to have multiple abilities, all from the Animus crystal. They can see into different times, both the future and the past, and they can manipulate people’s emotions. They can change the way a person feels about certain persons or things or events. They can even enter someone’s mind and alter memories. It is a very powerful tool, and when in the wrong hands it can be absolutely devastating.

“Which was precisely what happened. Early on, when not a lot was known about these arts and their place in the world, the earliest known Cristveggens grossly misused their powers. They began attacking people’s minds wantonly. Manipulating people into doing whatever they wanted, whether it was right or wrong. Removing essential memories from people’s minds indiscriminately. Soon, however, the affected people would realise that they have been attacked. Eventually the general understanding became that if one was to ever deal with a Cristveggen, then the safest and best method was to strike first and ask questions later.

“No one ever truly understood the might of the Cristveggen powers. Those born with it now are either carted off to monasteries to become monks and nuns if they are fortunate enough. Otherwise, they spend their whole lives living amongst people either hiding their true identity or being thrown out of society and living a nomadic lifestyle.

“King Clovis was also to blame for this, in some part. Before him kings had no clear stance on Cristveggens. They obviously wanted as many Eisentreibs for their armies as they could lay their hands on. But the Cristveggen were utterly useless to them, so they were ignored. But Clovis had apparently heard a lot about how powerful Cristveggens could make you dance around as if you were their puppet. He was uncomfortable at the notion that there could ever be someone who could make him do things without him even knowing about it. So he declared all Cristveggen enemies of the crown. Since his rule, all kings and emperors, the current one too, despise Cristveggens. Their cause was not helped by their equally blessed cousins, the Eisentreibs. As you would have guessed, several of the most successful Eisentreibs were noblemen and kings themselves. They plotted against the Cristveggens so that they could be the only ‘magicians’ in the land.”

“How do you know so much about these matters, Father Armand?” Moran was amazed. He had never heard any of these stories before. All his bedtime stories had been ones where Clovis and other great kings had been shown as powerful, yet merciful and just. And yet, here was a man of God telling him that the man he’d believed to be a saint was, in fact, a monster.

“Ah son, I fear I may have let my passions get the better of me,” sighed Father Armand, “It’s just that as a man of God, I cannot see injustice being done unto a helpless folk.”

But Moran had seen a fire in the old man’s faint milky black eyes. A fire that could not be simply due to seeing other people suffer. He pressed on tactlessly, “Come now, Father. That passion in your voice and that fire in your soul, those cannot be simply from seeing other people suffer.”

“Can they not?” asked Father Armand. He paused for a moment or two and finally sighed and whispered, “I am an old man. I have nothing to lose. I am a Cristveggen, my boy. I would request you to not tell anyone about this, but I am too old to care what happens to me now.”

“Father,” Moran uttered hesitantly, “I am a Cristveggen too.”

Moran then went on to explain the incident with his parents and his brothers and what he felt and what he did. After he was done Father Armand just looked at him blankly for a while. Then he said, “Come to meet me tomorrow evening after your work is done. You need practise and training.”

For the next ten months, Father Armand trained Moran in all the arts of a Cristveggen’s arsenal that he knew. Moran learnt how to use the Animus crystals to See into different points in space and time, he learnt how to wipe someone’s memory of a particular person or thing. However, the thing he found most fascinating was the ability to manipulate people’s emotions to make them bend to his will. This was partly because this was the first ability he had ever used with his Animus crystal, partly due to the fact that his tutor, Father Armand, was more proficient with this ability than with the other two and partly because he was inherently far more talented at this.

At the end of ten months, Father Armand came to Moran one day and said, “I think that you should leave this village and go to a monastery. There you will find others like us who can train you better.”

Moran looked a bit saddened at the thought. “But Father Armand, how can I leave my family without any notice? How can I leave them when they are so debt-ridden?” he asked.

They then devised a plan by which they would talk to Lord Mercador and manipulate him into letting his family off the hook. However, when the decided week arrived (they planned on manipulating him over a week, or maybe even two, if necessary), as luck would have it, Moran’s elder brothers and their father met with a serious accident at the construction site. He had to stay at home and help his mother take care of the three. His father succumbed to his injuries, but both his brothers survived. Luckily enough, Father Armand proved to be skilled enough to manipulate Lord Mercador into releasing the Moran family from his debt for free.

Ever since that evening when he accidentally Suppressed all their emotions, Moran and his family members did not discuss the matter of his Cristveggen abilities. It was the elephant in the room that no one talked about. But this incident with the loan amount owed to Lord Mercador was the final straw for his eldest brother. When he found out about their plan, his eldest brother decided to go and tell Lord Mercador what had happened. But both his younger brothers stopped him from doing so. Even though he did not like it, Moran’s elder brother was not as opposed to the current situation as his eldest brother. So it came to be that Sebastian Moran left his family that night, on the eve of his 21st birthday, as they fled their village. They went towards Lyon to earn a living through ‘honest labour’ in their words, whilst Moran went towards a monastery near Aachen which Father Armand had recommended.

It was here that he chose historical mythologies as his subject of specialised study. During this study he found the first pieces of clues and evidence that would lead to the eventual recovery of the Ma’a Toto’a that was now in their chancel being watched by Jìl and his men.

He was thinking about how he could influence the rate at which the Ma’a Toto’a was smoking up. He remembered one of Father Armand’s lessons, coming back to him across the eons that he had lived now. The old man had said, “A person’s emotions are what keep them alive. We do not fully understand or comprehend it, but it is impossible to live without emotions. This is not some metaphorical or poetic statement, but a hard cold fact. I do not talk about emotions in the way poets do, but in the way a Cristveggen Manipulator sees and touches them. What we see and touch to manipulate people are only the surface of the mystery. I believe that within the human mind are layers. The better one gets at using their Cristveggen Suppression and Storming abilities, the deeper inside the human mind one can enter. Therefore, I believe that if a sufficiently talented Cristveggen Manipulator hits a broad yet powerful enough strike on all a person’s emotions, that person would lose conscience completely. Not just in the conscious mind, but in the subconscious mind as well. Although, admittedly, I have not tried this for I believe it is too dangerous to experiment with, I think it is a good lesson for you to learn, Sebastian.”

This, he felt sure, was how he could have a shot at using Mary to get to John.

 

***

 

“Sir,” Moran whispered hesitantly, “I was thinking about how we can influence the rate at which the Ma’a Toto’a smokes up. I believe I have hit upon a solution for this problem. I was wondering that if events in that world can influence the rate at which the crystal smokes up, then maybe we can create a series of events in this world which can do the same thing. This way, the Ma’a Toto’a fills up faster and we can put the later stages of our Grand Plan in action sooner.”

Moriarty stopped looking at Moran halfway through this statement. He picked up a cigarette and lit it between his lips. He let out a puff of smoke as he spoke after Moran, “Have you, perhaps, in your undoubtedly meticulous planning of this solution, ever stopped to consider that this might be a solution to a problem that does not even exist?”

Moran looked at Moriarty, his hurt and indignation showing in his eyes, “What do you mean, my Lord?”

“I mean that there is no need to accelerate the process any further than what is naturally occurring. We have precious little time to begin with. You have not forgotten, I hope, that we are yet to work out how to use the Ma’a Toto’a for our purposes,” Moriarty breathed.

“No Sir, I do remember that conundrum,” said Moran, rebuked.

“Good,” Moriarty smiled, the smile dying before reaching his hollow eyes.

“My Lord, if I were to go on with my plan, what do you think would have happened?” Moran asked apprehensively, “I mean do you think it would have achieved any results?”

Moriarty leaned back, “That depends upon the specifics of the plan.”

Moran smiled, “Do you remember my first tutor, my Lord? Father Armand was his name.”

Moriarty thought for a while before saying, “Yes, what about him?” in a drawling voice.

“Well I was just thinking back upon one of his lessons. He reckoned that if a powerful Cristveggen were to lay an extremely powerful all-encompassing Suppressive emotional blow, a normal person with no training in how to defend themselves would end up losing control of their conscious and sub-conscious mind.”

Moriarty mused over that for a while before saying, “Hmm… That is not entirely beyond the realms of reason.”

Moran grew more confident in his hypothesis. He continued, “So I was thinking that I and Arol could visit the spy’s wife and use this method on her. Either I could try to knock her senseless with my Cristveggen power alone or, in case that does not work out, we could both hit her with our combined power. That would surely achieve the desired state of complete mental lack of consciousness. Once that was done, we could attempt to contact our spy through her mind. Surely the connection between those two would be strong enough to influence him. And if I can get in touch with him, the Ma’a Toto’a would have to fill up quicker.” Moran finished flamboyantly.

Moriarty shook his head and sniggered slightly. “Moran, you are so impatient. One day this will bring your downfall. Do you not see the glaring holes in your plot? Thank all our luck that you did not go through with this plan. You do realise that the wife would only be defenceless for a matter of a few seconds, don’t you? So to make this whole ridiculous set up work, you’d have to do this to her at least a couple of times an hour, maybe more. And even then the connection would be so tenuous that it would take you days, maybe weeks or even months to get any significant difference in the current rate. The process would surely either kill her or would finish her mind. Now I am not one to shirk away from spilling a little blood, but surely this is crossing some boundaries, is it not? Like I said, this is a solution to a problem that does not even exist.”

Moran did not know what to say to his master. So he simply stared down, thinking about why he did not think about these issues.

“It’s because you were obsessed with the idea of finding the Ma’a Toto’a that now that you’ve found it you need to find something else to become an obsession. You have all of eternity to kill and your favourite pastime has suddenly become useless,” Moriarty said, reading the play of emotions across his face.

Moran looked up at Moriarty and said, “Thank you for pointing out the flaws in my plan Sir, even though the discussion was entirely hypothetical.”

Moriarty nodded, looking away in the distance. After quite a long pause he said, “Well, since the discussion _is_ hypothetical, I guess I can also tell you something else.”

“What is that, Sir?” asked Moran eagerly.

“This plan would not have worked. But that is simply because the link was too tenuous. There is another way it might have, but definitely will not, work. And that is through books,” Moriarty said through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“What do you mean, Sir?” asked Moran.

“I keep telling you about a great fight that broke out between my brother and me over who would rule the world. Well, when that fight ended, the one, single world shattered into two halves. He got one and I got the other. Now the people of our world were randomly selected. This meant that there were husbands who got up with no wives, children waking up without their mothers and fathers, soldiers waking up without any comrades and so on. So I decided, and I’m pretty sure so did he, that the best way to deal with this is to have Memory Cleaners clear the appropriate memories or change them in some way so as not to affect the people too much.

“But you have to understand that a catastrophic battle like that had left the very fabric of space and time almost ripped to shreds. So currently, basically the only thing keeping our respective worlds together and not a jumble of ripped up space and time, is our own energy. My energy keeps this world from ripping to shreds and his energy does the same for his world. However, I had managed to recover earlier than he did. So my world, this world, recovered from its catastrophe quicker than his. This difference between our recovery times created a difference in our times relative to each other. So, usually a day in our world would be equivalent to three to four days in their world. However, despite being in a slower time frame, perhaps because I recovered quicker than him, my world is quite a bit ahead of his world, as far as progress through time goes. So, to explain simply, even though a week in his world is just about a couple of days here, we are, currently, months ahead of them. So whilst we are in January, they would still be in November, approximately.

“Once we had recovered, we took to taking care of matters in our worlds. Where I sought to have neatness and order, my brother sought diversity and vibrancy. So whilst I was busy managing this world, helping create new technology and advances in science, my brother was busy creating different dimensions in his world, each with an entirely different working principle. He loves tinkering around with things, seeing how each variation shapes up.

“Thus we were, in our different worlds, helping our people, imbeciles though they may be. But the rip in space and time was so complex and stretched so far and wide that I doubt there is any generation in either of our worlds that is free from its influence. So the Memory Cleaners had to do a job such that its effects would span as many generations as was needed.

“But every once in a while there would be someone who would get really close to the Cleaned up bit of their brain. They would see things… random things from some dimension of that world. They would almost inevitably end up seeing things in the same time frame as their own. So therefore, like I mentioned earlier, because we are farther ahead in the time continuum, they end up seeing something at the same point in time as they were. But for my brother and his people, that point in time has not yet happened. Once the vision is over, the person remembers hardly anything, if at all. But the idea is planted in their brain. Usually these people write these ideas down, which in turn fixes the future of that world. So, in a twisted and convoluted way, though it seems that the people whom we call ‘fiction writers’ tend to set the future of that world, it can be called the ‘fictional world’, it really is just the fictional world determining itself.”

Moran looked thoughtful at this and this made Moriarty smile. He could almost see some other plan starting to work in his mind.

“So, we are the “real world”, so to speak and they are the “fictional world”?”

“Yes, if you were to be poetic,” Moriarty replied, continuing. “So, the only sure fire way for you to influence the future of our spy and his companions in the fictional world is to find the author who is writing about their future right now and persuade him to make appropriate changes.”

At this, Moran perked up a little bit.

“However, I hope you have understood through this conversation that if the author tries to influence the future of the fictional world by changing his story, that simply will not work because, like I said earlier, the fictional world is its own master. It dictates its own future. The men and women writing these stories are merely vessels. If you try to get them to change their story, even I cannot predict the consequences of that action. It might either be harmless, wherein even though the written story has changed, the actual future of the fictional world does not- or it might be catastrophic wherein all of reality as we know it might collapse due to the paradox.”

“The space time fabric has not yet repaired itself, Moran. We fought and neither won. We ripped space and time apart to have our individual worlds. And now these worlds are held together simply because we wish them to. Yes, we are Gods. Gods powerful enough to do all the things our people imagine us to be capable of and then some. But most of our energies are expended in trying to ensure our worlds stay intact. I just want to put an end to this crippled existence of ours. I want to pull space and time back together to the way it was before our little fight and I want to put my brother out of his misery.”

At this, Moran nodded, his hand reaching out to touch his Lord’s for it was one of those rare occasions that Moriarty’s eyes seemed distant and lost.

“I got a little side-tracked. The other reason you trying to find the writer writing John Watson’s stories will not work to your benefit is that the author is no longer in this world. He’s gone from here forever. His life is finished. I saw to that personally,” said Moriarty smiling. This time his smile reached his lifeless and maniacal obsidian eyes. It only heightened their mania.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock twiddled with his phone on his way to the café, not finding any solace as the phone stayed in the air for a second before landing in his grasp with a pop. There weren’t any interesting people around either, a woman walking her dog and determinedly not trying to notice the man who had been a few steps behind her all the while and now sat on the park bench. She rubbed the golden band on her ring finger with her thumb before she joined him, letting her Basset munch on some treats as their lips moved in urgent whispers.

It would be nice to have a Basset around the house, Sherlock mused, finally putting the phone in his pocket after checking it for the hundredth time. Their relationship was still in the hard novitiate phase but dreaming never hurt anyone. Maybe, after they were old, they could rebuild the Holmes Manor in Kent and remove any remnants of the dreadful fire that had forced them to relocate. Or, they could live in Sussex. He could see it, John taking their Basset out with him on his walks and he would be old and wrinkled, his face a mere shade of the toughness it had possessed when he was young. And he would smile at little kids that came to pet the Basset while Sherlock rolled his eyes at all of them.

He saw Molly Hooper in the corner-most table, wearing a green cardigan and looking around, her face hidden from the flower vase, the same vase that hid the scratch marks in the living room of her house. Sherlock walked in confidently, instructing the waiter to buzz him on his phone if he saw anyone they didn’t want to meet.

“Hello, Molly.” He smiled at her, as she tucked a stray strand behind her ear, looking at him warmly.

 

***

 

John’s familiar walking stick was back at his side. He had kept it, just as a memory to the day his life had been changed forever but he had never thought he might find any use for it ever again. Apparently, he was wrong. Anyway, he waited outside the café, the table just visible when it occurred to him that he hadn’t thought this through properly. He couldn’t get near enough to them, the tables around were filled with people. And even if he could, he would be caught, he was sure of that.

His search for a solution was rendered null and void when a black sedan slowed down next to him on the road, the windows turning down and Mycroft Holmes’ steely eyes crinkling uncomfortably at him. He opened the door and John, with a last glance towards the table, got in, sitting opposite to Mycroft and looking around to avoid his scrutinising gaze. The overwhelming scent of lavender was all around him in an instant.

“Well, John. What brings you here?” Mycroft tried to bring his best and most amicable of tones to the table.  
  
“The same thing that brings you here, Mycroft.” He looked at the slightly tinted glass and images of Mycroft’s younger self flooded his mind. He shuddered before turning towards Mycroft who looked slightly taken aback.  
  
“Living with my brother has taken its toll on you, I presume. He can be rather difficult, as I’m sure you know.”  
“Not as difficult as some other people I have come to be acquainted with, thanks to my association with him. Let us not play any games, Mycroft.” He finished, having finally had enough with all the drama.  
   
“I don’t know what you mean, John. I am merely trying to be polite. However, yes, let’s come to the point if that’s what you want.” He said, putting his umbrella next to the empty space beside him.

John just stared out, waiting for him to begin, keeping the wooden handle in his line of vision.

“How are your sessions with Molly Hooper fairing? Any problems or uncomfortable revelations so far?”  
“Well, you would know about them all, won’t you, Mycroft? You have, after all, been keeping a close eye on me, for reasons I’m yet not aware of but soon will.” He now met Mycroft’s eye, suddenly feeling angry about everything that was happening to him. Even after everything, the man was still trying to play games with him and John just did not have the patience for it anymore.  
  
“You misunderstand me, John. The reason for my interest in your sessions is the same as Sherlock’s for meeting Doctor Hooper without telling you – we’re concerned about you.”

John let out a low humourless chuckle at that statement that made Mycroft look up from his cuffs.

“The truth, please.”  
“I am telling you the truth, or rather, the only truth you can manage to take in your current state. Let us not get ahead of ourselves, John,”

Mycroft was trying his best to be patient but he just wasn’t sure that he could succeed at that. And so, he did what he knew how to do best, he located John’s emotional centres, playing with his cuffs in a manner that would seem absentminded to a stranger. He Stormed John’s trust in him, that’s where the main problem was rooted. Their first meeting had not been very good and it had all gone downhill from there. He watched for any changes in John’s demeanour as he Suppressed his anger and uncertainty.

“So, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, Doctor Watson, and maybe, I can fix it? I have known Sherlock longer than you have and I understand why you would be uncomfortable sharing your confusion with him, he just tries to analyse things and has absolutely no talent for consoling people.” For good measure, he Stormed John’s current frustration against Sherlock.

“And why would I do that – tell you what’s going on when- Oh I see!” Something suddenly dawned on John and he clutched at the little victory he felt at Mycroft’s affronted expression.

“Molly Hooper has been keeping stuff from you, yes? This is why you are here. At first I thought you were following me, but no, you came here following her and Sherlock. No, don’t tell me, let me guess… our phones are tapped, aren’t they?” Mycroft’s silence to that statement made John shake his head.

“Who are you?” Mycroft finally whispered, appalled. He was the same John Watson he had been a few minutes ago and no matter how much he Stormed John’s respect for him or even Stormed the fear centre, he got no reaction. He merely saw a confused looking John staring back at him, the same question in his eyes.

“You kind of stole my line there, Mycroft.” John was tired of this now and, to add to that, he had a sudden urge to call Harry. It was unrelated to the situation but he went with it, it had been quite long since they had spoken, after all. It wouldn’t hurt to give her a call when things were a bit settled.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Mycroft’s hands were suddenly all over him, searching his person for what, only he knew.

“Hey, hey! Stop! What are you doing? And learnt what?” John was more confused than outraged at the suddenness of Mycroft’s actions.  
“Are you a Cristveggen or an Eisentreib?” His voice was low and personally, John thought Mycroft had lost it.  
“I am a what??!” He had hoped this meeting would clear some of his doubts, about the supposed nightmares and everything else that was going on with him but if anything, he was more confused than ever.

Mycroft shot him a quizzical look but after a few seconds, something dawned in his eyes and he fiddled with his cuffs again. Their conversation, if that’s what it was, was suddenly interrupted when Sherlock came out of the café, Molly still sitting on their table. He looked perturbed and resumed to play with his phone, almost walking into a guy as he made a turn.

“Okay, John. Just…try to forget what I said earlier. I want you to know than you and I, we’re on the same side. I am not your enemy and I’m only trying to protect my brother and by extension, you.” Mycroft was his composed self again, though John was still confused by his demented outburst a few minutes ago. Before he could ask more questions, Mycroft continued.  
  
“As a token of trust, I am going to send you the file of everything that transpired between my brother and Molly Hooper in the café just now, and I hope you will take the gesture to be a friendly one and change your opinion about me. Although, I can’t say that I care either way.”

John knew that their conversation was at an end but before he left, his eyes fell on the umbrella again and he just had to try his luck for one last time.

“Mycroft? Uhm… since we are trying to build trust here, could I ask you for something?”  
“If it’s important.”

John took his opportunity and before any protests could be made, he held the tip of the umbrella firmly from one end and pulled at the hooked handle, unsheathing the blade from his very nightmares. For a few seconds, neither he nor Mycroft exchanged any words but then, John gathered himself and put the umbrella-sword back in its place, next to Mycroft, and left the car, leaving its owner is a worst state of confusion than before.

 

***

 

Sherlock was playing the violin when John came back into the flat, some tune John wasn’t familiar with. When the door creaked open, Sherlock didn’t take any notice. The dirge started and the dirge ended, no words were exchanged. They had done this before, not talking about their issues until they simply went away. _But they never did, did they?_ John thought to himself.

When Sherlock turned around and quietly put the violin back in his case, John gathered words in his mouth to start. But Sherlock beat him to it.

“So, you followed me, did you?” His tone was icy without any hint of the anger he felt.  
“Uh?” John didn’t know what to say. He had walked back from Mycroft’s car with a nice speech prepared in his head about how he would confront Sherlock but right now, he felt ambushed.

“Oh, please, John. I saw you. I knew what you were up to the moment you decided to take a “walk” at 6. Don’t ever, ever think that you can play games with me, don’t ever think that you are smart enough for that.” The ice cold demeanour was broken and John saw Sherlock almost shaking with rage. He felt guilty, but why? It was he who should be angry right now. Yes. _Yes!_

“You have lost the right to be angry, Sherlock. And yes, I followed you. So what? I knew you were talking about me. What did you two discuss, then, “John’s poor mental state”? Or the content of my nightmares and how I might breakdown any second?”

“Why don’t you listen to that tape Mycroft sent you? Maybe that would tell you everything.”

“Oh, I will! But before that, just tell me why you did it?”

“Why I did it?! Even you aren’t that stupid, John. Stop boring me and own up to what you have been doing so far.”

“I have been doing nothing-”

“Nothing! NOTHING? You have been hiding stuff from me. Things about my own brother, mind you. Stupid nightmares that you think mean something. Dear lord, I thought you had more sense than that. But I was obviously wrong. Why don’t you contact someone who can help you with that? Because clearly, seeing a psychiatrist isn’t helping. How about someone who knows how to perform black magic or witchcraft, since that is clearly the area that we need looked into.” Sherlock was so completely done with everything that he just did not have any more words. Even his anger seemed hollow and revealed none of the pain and frustration of what he was really feeling.

“Shut up! You have no idea what I’m going through. You and that insufferable brother of yours.”

“I would have had _some_ idea had I not faced the need to consult an absolute stranger about what is going on with my own partner. That wasn’t embarrassing at all, by the way. Thanks for that token of trust, John. Thank you.” Sherlock spat out.

“You know, words like “trust” would have meant more coming from you if you hadn’t just been found scheming with my psychiatrist behind my back, who, by the way, is not at all trustworthy, seeing how she’s been trading information about me with you and Mycroft.”

Before Sherlock could say anything more, John cut him off.

“I’ll listen to that tape now, if you don’t mind.”  
“Fine.”

Instead of storming out of the room, as was usual for Sherlock when faced with distressing moments, he sat himself down on the couch, waiting with a snarky look in his eyes. John knew what would happen before he had even opened his inbox.

The audio file had nothing, save a few innocuous statements from Molly and Sherlock. Nothing about John.

“So, you found a way out of your brother’s snooping. Good for you.”

“I knew our phones were tapped, it would take more than that to fool me. We just… wrote stuff on our phones and passed them back and forth. We obviously could not message because Mycroft would read them too.” Sherlock stated, matter-of-factly, almost expecting John to say “amazing”. When he didn’t, Sherlock got up and made to go, leaving John with fragments of his faux conversation with Molly still playing from his laptop.

However, before slamming his door, he turned around once, having remembered something.

“I have been wanting to ask you something for a long time now and please, don’t lie to me. We’ve had enough lies and deceit in this relationship, I think.”

John looked up at him, lost for words.

“Did you kiss me that day because you were high on adrenaline? So much had happened in your dream, the night before, and you were half asleep. I understand that, in a way, it could have been innocuous. Something you didn’t want to go ahead with. But you had to, because we’re friends and… you have a kind heart, John, so maybe, you just didn’t know how to break it to me, tell me that you felt nothing for me without ruining our friendship?

“I know you admire me and we’re great friends but love… well, I don’t think you feel anything like that towards me. I’ve been feeling these things for a long time now - you holding back things from me, shutting me off when you feel overwhelmed or scared. And I didn’t want to believe them because, well, you are the best thing that has ever happened to me and I’m not just saying that. I mean it.” Now Sherlock looked down, taking a deep breath as if the words he was going to say next were hurting him on some physical level.

“I do love you, more than I have loved anyone but the problem here, I think, is that I love you more than you love me. And don’t say anything now that you probably don’t mean. Just give it some thought and you’ll know that I am right. I am always right.” He added with a bitter laugh.

“If you do realise that what I said is true, like it is, just tell me. I won’t mind it, we can even go back to how things were before we kissed and became… more than friends. It was abrupt and you didn’t get any time to stop where things were going, or were too polite to do that. I promise you that I won’t say anything, we’ll continue being flatmates like nothing ever happened. I’ll be in my room if you need me.”

And that’s all he said, leaving John alone and speechless, with nothing but the words that had just been uttered, hanging between him and the closed door, until John found his feet leading him out of the flat, wanting nothing but to escape the silence left behind.

 

***

 

The house was eerily quiet when John came back. His head was much lighter now but his heart wasn’t. Also, he had expected Sherlock to be on the couch, probably sulking and he was hoping that a small peck on the lips would help break the ice.

John Watson was not shy of confrontations but that doesn’t mean he enjoyed them or looked forward to them. He tried to avoid them as much as he could. And talks, such as the one they were going to have, were not exactly his forte. He had decided to walk around but instead, he could do nothing but sit on the steps leading out of their flat. He had framed arguments in his head, for and against what Sherlock said and still couldn’t reach a conclusion. Ultimately, he had decided that the words would just come to him when he saw Sherlock.

He thought about knocking but decided against it. That would be too formal. They were, after all, together, at least for now.

“I know you’re not asleep,” he said, voice quiet just in case he was wrong. There was no movement from the form on the bed. Anyone else would have gone out, thinking that Sherlock was probably asleep. The man rarely slept and when he did, he was death itself. But John, who knew him better than most people, knew the fake sleepiness when he saw it. It was usually directed at him when he force fed Sherlock food in between cases.

He took his jumper off, then his shirt, and quietly got under the toasty warm duvet. Sherlock was still in his t-shirt when John got in. He would go to sleep if Sherlock didn’t respond to the kisses peppered on the back of his neck.

“So, are we having sex before breaking up?” came a muffled voice. Yes, he hadn’t been asleep.

“We’re not breaking up.”  
“I know I am. I can’t do this anymore. And you are so polite, you won’t even say anything until we’re for searching for retirement cottages in Sussex.”  
“Why Sussex? And, no, you aren’t either, and just turn around, yeah? Let’s talk.” John buried his face in the scent of bergamot shampoo, cold feet rubbing against Sherlock’s.

“Okay,” Sherlock turned around, suddenly full of energy. “Let’s talk about- mmmf-” John kissed him, finding purchase in his hair and bringing them closer. When Sherlock didn’t kiss back after a few seconds, he stopped. This clearly wasn’t one of those times where they could make out and forget about the incident.

“You were wrong,” he finally managed, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s chest.

“I am never wrong,” he replied, but didn’t push John away.

“You were absolutely wrong. I didn’t kiss you that morning because I was high on adrenaline, I kissed you because I wanted to. Because I had wanted to do it ever since we chased the cab halfway across London and were panting against the wall, making jokes about Afghanistan. I had wanted to kiss you since Angelo brought my walking stick back and I realised that I had done all these things without it, that I didn’t need it anymore. I kissed you because you changed my life, Sherlock, you made me alive again. And,” now he looked up, meeting Sherlock’s eyes, “I kissed you because-- just look at you…” He gave him a chaste peck on the lips and this one was returned. Feeling bolder, he soldiered on.

“You were here every night I had a nightmare, so much so that after the first few ones, I would wake up not scared but looking for you. I felt… safe with you, somehow. All my life, I took care of others and I never really wanted anyone’s help. I got myself through med school and went to Afghanistan without anyone waiting for me back home except for a sister who would probably be too drunk if they ever came back with the news of my death. But with you… you took care of me in ways you can’t even comprehend.

“From the day since you came back upstairs and asked me to join you, you have been there.”

He stole a kiss again, reaching up the neck this time, “Stable, solid, unwavering, always there, eyes alert, your arms around me. I couldn’t _not_ kiss you, _not_ fall in love with you.” He brushed his nose against Sherlock’s jaw line, peppering small bites along it as he reached his lips and just covered Sherlock’s top lip with his own, tongue tracing the cupid’s bow and dipping into it.

“I love you, Sherlock. I haven’t said it because I didn’t think I needed to. Ever. I love you. God, I do.” He whispered, breaking their kiss and looking into those brilliant eyes that had a colour for every mood of the unpredictable mind they hid.

“Okay…” That’s all Sherlock could manage. For once in their entire association, John had seen Sherlock Holmes being lost for words. He tentatively leaned forward and brushed his lips against John’s, suddenly aware of the brutal things he had said before.

“Don’t ever say that the problem with us is that you love me more than I do. Yes, I have made some mistakes but so have you. We both have. It’s true that our relationship started abruptly and with all that is going on in my life, I shouldn’t have started anything of the sort. With anyone. I am too broken right now to make something as serious as a relationship work.” Sherlock nodded. So, this was it then.

“That being said, now that we’re in it, I don’t want it to end. Sherlock…” John’s voice hitched in his throat. “I can’t afford it to end. So just, please…” And he didn’t know what to say anymore.

There were no words left, they’d said them all. Brutal and hurting, loving and comforting, there was nothing that the walls 221B hadn’t heard.

Sherlock gathered John in his arms, cupping his face and kissing him once, twice, on the cheek, forehead, temples, eyes, trying to reach all the places at once. And John let him, hands working into getting Sherlock out of his flimsy excuse of a t-shirt.

The soft butter kisses between them slowly turned heated, urgent and harsh. Sherlock’s hands stole in John’s pants, cupping his arse and dragging him closer, bringing their clothed erections together. As John’s tongue explored his mouth for the hundredth time, knowing every ridge and soft spot but never getting tired of it, Sherlock moaned and tried to get more friction, rocking slowly with his thumb tracing the crack of that arse, leaving goose bumps in their wake.

“Not like this, get your pants off. I want-” Sherlock had to kiss him again at that, biting his bottom lip hard and running his tongue over it to soothe it.

“Fuck, I’m hot.” Sherlock muttered in between John trying to wrestle with his own pyjamas with one hand and tapping Sherlock’s hip with the other to get him to undress quickly.  
  
“Yes, you are.” John grinned cheekily.  
“I didn’t mean that- FUCK!” Finally completely naked, John wasted no time in getting the duvet off them, kissing down Sherlock’s chest and running his tongue over the nipples he didn’t know were so sensitive. They had always been in too much hurry, never getting past urgent handjobs and morning blowjobs. Never like this, sweaty skin on skin with their erections heavy between them and the lube in reach, just on the top drawer of the side table.

“Get the lube, will you?” John muttered, going back to peppering soft kisses along Sherlock stomach, tongue tracing his belly button as Sherlock’s legs came around him automatically, his erection feeling achingly hard but right under John’s chin. John felt bold enough to wink at him before popping the head in his mouth and swirling his tongue around it.

“Lube,” he said, making an obscene popping song that drowned Sherlock’s frustrated growl.

“Are you sure about this? Because we…haven’t done this before,” John looked up, Sherlock’s hand apparently working on its own accord to grab the lube and slide the drawer shut.  
  
“Of course, I am. Are you?” He dragged his tongue along the inside of Sherlock’s sprawled thighs, grinning wolfishly as he reached the ever so sensitive spot right under his balls and gave them achingly slow licks.  
  
“Oh god yes!”

John took his own sweet time in preparing Sherlock, fingers coated heavily with lube as they kissed and he circled the ring of muscles before slowly pushing past a knuckle and into Sherlock, instructing him to exhale.

“Shh, it’s okay. Just breathe,” John whispered, kissing his temple. Sherlock’s face was screwed up in concentration and for the most part, he just looked overwhelmed. John went slow with him, murmuring constant praises intermingled with filthy confessions out of his own head.

He was intoxicatingly tight and John looked awestruck at the way his finger disappeared inside Sherlock, centimetre by centimetre until he drew it back and started again, working his finger in, amidst loud breaths and misplaced kisses. Slowly, he drew the finger back again, and another went in, ever so slowly and now, Sherlock’s breath stuttered and he chanted “yes” and “more”, head thrown back. When John worked the third finger in him, Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his hips were moving, slowly fucking himself on those fingers and his neck all exposed for John to reach up and kiss and suck at his leisure. John murmured nonsense into that neck, his wrist working on its own now.

It didn’t take long for his Doctor’s hands to find the slightly swollen bundle of nerves and he lightly held them between his fingers, massaging slowly, as Sherlock let out a stream of “oh fucks” and finally “now please, John, now!”

Taking his fingers out and giving him one last peck on the lips, John slowly applied a generous amount of lube to his erection that was wet on the head with pre-cum. Sherlock’s hole looked pink and open, as John lined himself against it, with Sherlock’s legs hitched up his shoulder. As he slid the head inside him, Sherlock’s hands went up to clutch the headboard and John squeezed his thigh gently before moving in steadily.

“Oh, just do it, you won’t break me!” came Sherlock’s irritable voice. He was going to say something more but his tirade was cut short with John entering him in one fluid motion, hands on his bony hips and balls nestled snugly between them, a huge grin on his face.

Sherlock couldn’t decide if he wanted to scream or sob. There was a delicious sort of burning inside him, right where they were joined. He closed his eyes and for once, he didn’t have anything in his head. It was all blissfully blank, everything centred around that one point between them. He nodded, taking large gulps of air.

“Okay,” John whispered, slightly breathless and overwhelmed by the heat around him. And then, he started moving, slowly at first but at Sherlock’s rather aggressive insistence, harder. The sound of skin slapping against skin and Sherlock making the most delicious of noises, some marks visible on his neck with his head thrown back, everything filled John’s senses until there was a familiar feeling pooling low in his belly.

Almost instantly, the line between pain and pleasure blurred and Sherlock was tipped over to the other side. He felt something familiar coil low inside him, familiar but not the same. This was different, so different from those blowjobs they exchanged every chance they got. He wanted to tell John that they should do this again, but all he could do was groan as John got him so close to the edge.

“Come on, come for me,” John muttered, his pace stuttering as Sherlock reached for his erection between them, pumping it as hard as he could. John fucked him relentlessly, establishing a pace until Sherlock copied the rhythm, fucking himself on John’s cock on one end and his fist on the other. Once, twice, and he was coming. As his insides clenched around John, John made a pained sound, not wanting to overwhelm Sherlock too much.

Sherlock’s face scrunched up like he was in terrible pain and John had to stop to kiss the grimace out of his features while Sherlock rocked gently. His back was beginning to hurt as well but Sherlock opened his eyes and reached for his hand, squeezing and nodding and John didn’t need to be told twice.

He pounded into him, coming loudly with a stream of swears intermingled with Sherlock’s name on his lips, his heart hammering like he was going to die.

They slumped on top of each other and realised that in their haste, the duvet was ruined. After getting his breath back and beginning to feel his limbs again, John nudged Sherlock and muttered, “Let’s take a shower.”  
  
“No, sleepy. Tomorrow.” He was almost already asleep, limbs all pliable and warm, the smell of sex engulfing them. Unconsciously, he reached for the bite on his neck and ran his thumb along it, smiling at the prickle of pain that shot through him.

John kissed him between his collar bones, getting up to go to the bathroom to get some tissues and cleaning them up.

“There is another thing… about Mycroft.”  
“You want to talk about my brother right after I’ve had the best shag of my life?”  
“Yes, I do. Now, listen.”

Sherlock looked at him, eyes drowsy and unfocussed but interested.

“Pretty sure Molly told you all about the content of those dreams.”  
“Yes, she did. I just think they are nothing you should be thinking about…”  
“No, listen. Did she mention something about Mycroft’s umbrella in my nightmare?”  
“Uhm… I don’t think so. No. She just gave me the basic story, not extensive details or anything.” Sherlock yawned, turning around to put his head on John’s chest, his breath warm and forehead sweaty.

“Well, there was this one bit in the nightmare where his umbrella was at the corner among the ruin, and a sword protruded from it. Back when I was in the car with him, a few hours ago, and he tried to “win my trust”, so to speak, his umbrella was lying around and… and I unsheathed it.”

At this, Sherlock looked up, suddenly wide awake.

“It was the same sword umbrella, Sherlock. I know it.”

They lay there for hours, discussing the possibility of John’s nightmares being true. Soon, the night was more grey than deep purple and John was beginning to drift in and out of sleep, Sherlock’s head on his chest and his still slightly damp nape the only thing assuring him that this wasn’t a dream. Finally, Sherlock promised John that he would help him find out all about this and they would also start looking for more clues that Mycroft himself could provide them with.

“There is still one thing I don’t understand,” Sherlock muttered, looking up towards John.  
“What?”  
“Why couldn’t you tell me all of this before?”  
John sighed.

“It was nothing as complicated as you would seem to think. Initially, I was too confused to discuss these things out loud, I somehow thought that if I ignored them, it would be just nightmares and nothing more. I think, even from the beginning, I smelled something fishy, Mycroft showing so much interest in something as trivial as his brother’s roommate’s nightmares.”

“Yes, I was struck by the oddness of it as well. But it escaped my mind, what with you acting so cagey and keeping me at an arm’s length,” Sherlock still sounded a bit wistful at this and so John ran his hands along his scalp, gently playing with his hair that kept trapping his fingers in their curly confusion. He continued.

“With the dream about “Mary” and how it got inside my head, it was too overwhelming. Later, however, when I actually started seeing Mycroft and that other guy, I desperately wanted to tell you. But, I didn’t know how much hold Mycroft had on you and if, by telling you about all this, I was putting you into danger along with myself.”

Sherlock shrugged. It was true, that explanation had never entered his mind. As someone had once told him, perhaps Mycroft or someone else he didn’t remember, his greatest flaw was that he wanted everything to be complicated and clever. Occam’s Razor - the simplest explanation is always the most likely.

“That seems to make sense,” Sherlock didn’t know what else to say but John planted a kiss on his head and he forgot what he was thinking after that.

“We’ll find out about this more tomorrow but now, I’m too tired to even wish you goodnight.”  
“Goodnight, Sherlock,” John whispered. He wished he was back to being detached about this, like he had been in the beginning. If only he could be that carefree, not knowing why he didn’t feel fear or pain, even at death. His tragedy would have seemed much better like that. But for now, John slept, thinking that they should have taken that shower, after all.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Did you get a chance to talk to Mycroft?” John muttered, buttering his toast. He held the slice in his mouth, checking for his messages from Molly or Mycroft. There were none.

“No. Why would I? Anyway, he probably knows. Mycroft _always_ knows.”

John merely hummed his response. They had decided after waking up the same morning, still sore and incredibly horny, somewhere between John’s hardening erection in the crack of Sherlock’s arse and Sherlock bringing John’s hand between his legs to sleepily rut against it, sometime after Sherlock came with a muffled yawn and a hoarse moan, it had been decided that John would continue with his sessions, after all. The plan was still unclear but it was decided that for John’s mental sanity and Molly’s safety, it was probably for the best that they keep certain details to themselves.

When John came back from the shower, Sherlock was pacing around and over the furniture, violin in hand but no tune in the air.

“What is it?”  
“She called.”  
“And?” John asked, towelling his hair, and putting the kettle on.

“She said that she had probably been too quick to judge Mycroft and it was nothing, just a figment of her imagination. John, that is you, is just a usual patient for her.”

“That’s interesting. What else did she say to you, in your meeting?” There was still a lot of confusion around, Mycroft’s odd questions to John in the car being on top of John’s worry list for the day. In fact, for a few minutes, there was almost no place in his head for his own nightmares as all the space was stolen by the uncertainty and doubt of the actions of people around him.

“She did say something that I didn’t find that important at that moment. It seemed to be illogical and frankly, too right brained for my taste. She said that, even though she provided Mycroft with every little information he asked for, eventually, she started feeling bad about her actions. Like she was doing something wrong and she also mentioned being surprised at how easily he had convinced her. Now, I know my brother, he can be pretty convincing when he wants to but this wasn’t the usual “send a casual appreciation someone’s way and win their trust” kind of thing, John. The way she mentioned it, it was almost like…”

John looked up from the tea he was pouring, inadvertently spilling some on the counter and hurrying to wipe it off. “Almost like what?”

“Almost like she had been someone else when she did it. And those are her words, not mine. She said that, in retrospection, it was something she would never have done, no matter what. Also, the very fact that she took you in as a patient, even though she had given up on her practice seemed unusual to her as well.” Sherlock finished, finally settling down on the couch with the thump, and running his hand through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, but I have no idea what that can mean. And I’m not saying it’s not possible because, well, I’m the nuttiest one in all of us, but there just isn’t a reason or common thread I can find behind all of this.” He said, offering Sherlock his tea and dropping down next to him.

“At that time, I thought it was her way of dealing with the unprofessionalism of leaking out a patient’s details to someone else. People often find curious ways to assuage their guilt, I thought this was hers.” Sherlock placed the mug on the table, and buried his face in his hands. After sliding a coaster under the mug, John gently took his hand out of his hair, urging him to talk.

“There is something important I am missing, John. Something right under my nose and I just can’t place it.” Sherlock let out a frustrated growl, grabbing his mug and downing the entire tea in one go and then shutting himself up for 2 hours while John pushed an ice cube in his mouth every couple of minutes and Sherlock sucked on it with a morose expression.

 

***

 

Molly was back to being cold around John and he could almost feel her icy demeanour inside his own throat as she opened the door of her study and invited him inside. The reaction was weird but certainly not unexpected. John didn’t know why or how he wasn’t surprised but he had come to accept these oddities as part of his life now, and giving them too much attention only made his head hurt. So, he had decided that he would stop expecting anything anymore and would just go with the flow.

The new approach had surprisingly worked in his favour and he was beginning to _not_ feel the fresh wave of hopelessness already. They had gotten into the habit of chitchatting for a while before the actual session began. The subject usually involved Sherlock. Trading stories about his behaviour pre and post John was always fun, making John less nervous of what fresh hell might be awaiting him in his head this time. However, today, he immediately leaned back on the recliner and closed his eyes, hoping to see more of Mycroft.

_John was standing centimetres away from the man with the dead obsidian eyes; if he had a body, their noses would be touching. He could almost touch the madness in his soul and so, with some effort, he backed off, realising that this was the palace he had seen before, just the one time, but there was no mistaking it - this was the uncomfortably familiar place that reeked of grandeur and fear, like he wasn’t supposed to be in here. However, the chairs were gone and instead, there was a small thing positioned in the centre of the table._

_Looking around, he saw no one but the crystal that was on the table and when he craned the thing that would have been his head, he saw another man, slightly older with grey eyes, wavy hair falling on his rugged face, sitting on a lower stool._

_Both of them were staring at the crystal and so did John. Once he started looking at it, the background seemed to blur away from existence and nothing mattered except the crystal, a little less than half filled by smoke than what he remembered. As he kept staring at its depths, unable to take his eyes from the bottom which seemed endless, he realised something – the rate at which it filled up had slightly increased. Not just compared to the last time he had seen it but right now, as he stared at it, the crystal seemed to fill faster, unnoticed by the two men, who were now speaking informally in low tones that John couldn’t hear. The older man was almost looking into those intelligent but cruel eyes almost reverentially, listening to the words and soaking them in like his very life depended on it._

_Eventually, the younger man took his scarred palm in his own and reassured him, smiling a terribly genuine smile that distorted his features more than softening him. He didn’t let go of the hand as the grey eyed man continued to make what seemed to be arguments, given the passion on his face. In the end, he nodded, simply bowing his head and brought the hands holding his own to his lips, touching his lips to the knuckles with unbecoming tenderness._

_John sneaked another glance towards the crystal, finally tired of noticing it out of the corner of his eye. He got closer, as close as he could get and could almost feel the surprisingly warm surface on his intangible forehead. Before he started getting dizzy from exhaustion, he could swear he saw his own face swirling in its depths._

 

***

 

They had spent almost 48 hours now, mulling over the same details again and again until John could recite them in his sleep. After the end of the 49th hour, lying awake on his bed at 6am in the morning and Sherlock fiddling with something in the other room, John had had enough. If he didn’t get any action soon, he feared he might go mad from the lack of information. _What the fuck was going on?_

Right now, there was no one around and John could give up on the pretence of being brave. Not that he did that in front of Sherlock. Not all the time, anyway. But still, he was the patient one in the two of them and he had just grounded Sherlock when he flew off his handle and decided to get his answers the quick way by either paying a visit to Mycroft or Molly in person. But right this second, with the almost normal sounds of Sherlock’s robe swishing and the table moving providing a comfortable buffer to his troubled thoughts, John could be himself. He could be scared and he could be conscious about the future, he could let fear seep him until he got used to it and did not have to deal with it anymore. Right now, he was alone and there was no one around in front of whom he was supposed to put up a brave front.

Breaking into his thoughts was a crash of what sounded a certain Sherlock Holmes falling off the attic stairs and another louder groan of profanity directed at no one and everyone. Soon, the man was calling for John, passing by the bedroom without even as much as a glance. John moved slowly, eyes itchy from mental exhaustion and lack of sleep.

“Come on, get up. I need you to see something!”

“What is it, Sherlock?” He sounded utterly bored but Sherlock’s excited face made him smile a little. He was unpacking a cardboard box, unskilfully tackling the heavily taped flaps and giving up when John tapped him on his shoulder and used the kitchen knife to tear through the packing.

Inside was a huge array of objects, stuffed together haphazardly showing that it was the handiwork of a certain overly enthusiastic detective, currently taking the things out and almost cutting his hand on a picture with a broken glass frame.

“Careful there, don’t cut yourself,” John muttered, slowly sitting down beside him and placing the broken shards away from them. It was a picture of a young boy with curly hair, sitting on the shoulder of a taller boy with freckles all over his face, hair thinning already, his hand holding on firmly to the curly haired child’s ankle.

“Awh, look it’s little you!” John laughed at the scowl thrown in his direction as Sherlock took the picture from him and looked at it thoughtfully.

“Yes, I think I was 6. Mycroft and I were forced to have one decent and happy picture to be nostalgic about when we grew up and, on my grandmother’s insistence, I was asked to sit on his shoulders. The only good thing that came out of it was me pulling Mycroft’s hair when I jumped down.” John grinned at that, having no difficulty at all in picturing a wayward Sherlock being insufferable about something as simple as a picture.

“Look at this one, it was on my 8th birthday, I think.” Sherlock handed him the unframed and slightly crumpled picture of a beautiful and formidable looking woman with flowing silver hair and gold rimmed glasses, her arms around Sherlock’s lean frame. Sherlock was holding an antique looking magnifying glass in one hand and two test tubes in the other, looking extremely happy and probably unaware of the camera freezing that moment forever.

“Who is this?” John asked. The face in this black and white photograph was completely different, an odd chin jutting out and his deep brown bordering-on-black hair sticking out from the back. The man had a huge beaming smile and tiny eyes that crinkled at the corners good naturedly. He had a peculiar taste in clothing, like he had broken into a Skinhead’s wardrobe and chosen to put on random elements that he liked. His trousers were a tad short and the top end of a pen like thing stuck out from his tweed coat. But the eyes, they had the same piercing quality that both Sherlock and Mycroft had inherited. However, they were much humble and kinder, something none of the Holmes boys could acquire. John had seen that look of pleased satisfaction on Sherlock’s face when he had asked him about dinner at the end of their first case together.

“That, as I have been told, was my father. He left us when I was 2.”

And so, they went through picture after picture - Mycroft graduating, Sherlock graduating, the boys shrinking back to being 5 and 12, sleeping on a bed of grass, with a huge house in the background.

“Is that where you grew up?” John asked, pointing at the archaic looking manor with lush yew hedges giving it an almost eerie look. Sherlock looked at him through his first magnifying glass, now rusting, the glass slightly scratched and unfit to use, and nodded.

“Hmm, I had completely forgotten about this house. We stayed there until I was 5 and then a fire broke out, destroying almost everything except the things in this cardboard box which were safely stowed under a secret door under my bed.

 _Of course, Sherlock would have a secret door under his bed_ , John mused. At the bottom of the box was a huge and thick album, slightly blackened around the edges, a gilded H glinting at the top right corner of the leather cover.

Inside were not more pictures of the happy family, like John had expected, but small out of place things. First was a blueprint of the Holmes Manor, as Sherlock had told John it was called. It ran over a piece of 3 feet long and 2 feet wide linen strip, the slight shrinking at random areas signalling that it was extremely old. There were various other pictures of parts of manor, some in colour and most others in sepia. There were a few hand drawn sketches of signet rings and odd objects like that.

“Those were by my grandmother, she was quite an artist. Look at how the ring almost seems to lift off the paper. Most of her paintings got destroyed in the fire, though. She used to draw me and Mycroft in excellent poses while we would play in the backyard. There were paintings of us and people who visited my father, friends and colleagues, all over her room. I think you might find pictures of some of the paintings in the last few pages.” Sherlock was now examining some rusted iron filings under his magnifying glass, looking comically like a frog but too immersed to notice.

John flicked through the pages, reaching the last few quite soon. As Sherlock had mentioned before, there were random shots of walls full of paintings. There were three individual shots, one with Sherlock and Mycroft, and one with their father and a woman with beautiful and wild golden locks and a clever smile, probably Sherlock’s mother. As John turned the last page, he was frozen in shock for a full 10 seconds before he could even utter a word.

“Sherlock…” he whispered, running his fingers over an all too familiar face, obsidian eyes and a maniacal half smile, somehow younger and less pale. At the bottom corner, signed right above Sherlock’s grandmother’s angled signature were two words, twice underlined and adorned with a dot at the edge – _James Moriarty._

“Hmm?” came Sherlock’s distant voice, tongue darting out to lick the filings. He took one look at John and raised his eyebrows.

“What is it?” John just passed him the suddenly heavy album, his stomach flipping uncomfortably. After scanning the picture for a while, one eye still on John’s quiet expression, Sherlock put it on the floor.

“No idea. It says ‘James Moriarty’ but I haven’t heard that name before. It does seem familiar, though. Wait a second!” He looked around in the small pile of books spread on his right, getting out a small blue one and finding the page he was looking for.

“Listen to this,” he said, and started reading from the book.

_I found James on one of my travels and like me, he too was brilliant but utterly alone. However, we had one huge difference, he never felt the need to have a companion to make his journey easy. Even at the peak of my reign, I missed my two friends and was not yet ready to look for new people to make my fantastic journeys happier and homely._

_Jim and I instantly hit it off, sharing a mutual love for the unknown and the alarming. He was a quiet man but a brilliant company, setting off my dramatics with his stability. Even though we’d barely been travelling for a few months, I felt like I had known him forever. I also cared for him a lot, like I would for my own son. It gave me immense joy to watch the workings of a great human mind so closely. Brilliant!_

Sherlock looked up after finishing and John was still a bit awestruck.

“What is it? Do you know him?”  
“No, but I have seen him.”  
“Where? I think you might be confusing him with someone else-”  
“No. Listen, Sherlock. He’s the same guy. He’s the guy I saw with Mycroft, in my nightmares. He was the one Mycroft was fighting against. It’s him, I know it. I can never forget those eyes, or the way metal flew like ribbons around him. It’s him.”

Sherlock took a look at the picture again, eyes alert, looking for some hint or clue the picture could reveal. Like his father’s hand had penned, it seemed that he knew this man quite well. Maybe he was a childhood friend? But Sherlock had quite a sharp memory and he didn’t remember anyone by that face or that name. He would often play with his father’s old friends who still visited the Holmes manor after their father left, bringing interesting anecdotes to the dinner table or simply their company. His mother hated them. No one except Mycroft looked forward to their visit, though Sherlock was always glad when they brought some old relic of his father’s with them.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked, tentatively putting his hand over John’s knee and squeezing when John looked up at him.  
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Just that, looking at him, his picture, took me by surprise. It almost makes it more…”  
“Real?” Sherlock finished his sentence, head leaning on John’s shoulder and sighing audibly.  
“Yes. Real.”

Between tea and packing stuff up, they decided that they would have a joint session with Molly Hooper. The reasons were obvious, Sherlock had been away from all this so far but now, it was important that he get involved. He could at least get a first-hand account of what John’s next session would reveal and might get a session himself. Another reason, that Sherlock didn’t mention, was that it was probably safer for them to stay together, at least for a while.

 

***

 

“It’ll be fine, don’t be so nervous,” John tried to calm Sherlock down when the latter was so fidgety, jumping at every honking cab behind them.  
  
“I don’t like psychiatrists,” he muttered, letting John take his hand and staring out of the window, ready to throw up any second now. Suddenly, twin sessions weren’t looking like such a good idea.  
  
“Just take a deep breath, I know how you feel. And it’s just Molly, right? You’ve known her longer than you’ve known me,” John reasoned.  
  
“Not Molly the psychiatrist, I haven’t. And not this Molly either. She sounded completely different on the phone yesterday, like she hadn’t said those things in the café and… there’s something wrong with her and today, I’m going to find out what.”

In spite of the traffic, they reached their destination sooner than expected, or maybe it was just Sherlock’s apprehension making it seem so.

Molly’s house was the same, nothing new except fresh prints of size 11 shoes on the carpet in her study. Sherlock was too agitated to notice it. He felt uncomfortable with people breaking into his mind, so to speak, and messing around with things. He’d never been to a psychiatrist before, even though a lot of people had asked him to for entirely different reasons.

John was supposed to go first, allowing Sherlock some more to wallow in his nervousness as Molly gave him a sickeningly sweet smile and asked him to lean back on the recliner. In a few seconds that seemed like extremely long uncomfortable years to Sherlock, John began talking.

“This is my non memory,” John started.

“I am at the top, floating down towards the two men on the platform. They are the same men but now, I know them both. Yes, now the fog of their devastation is slightly clearing up and I can see them. James Moriarty and Mycroft Holmes.”

His voice was clear and strong, words coming out without any emotion. He was just sort of droning on with what he was seeing. At least his voice provided Sherlock some respite from his own thoughts.

“Mycroft looks reluctant and he’s mouthing something at Moriarty, I can’t hear the words but I know he’s asking him to stop all this. He’s almost pleading with him as Moriarty’s men look confused on the ground. He’s fiddling with his cufflinks and Moriarty’s men along with Mycroft’s are turning around towards Moriarty. Mycroft doesn’t look happy, even though things are taking a positive turn for him.”

“A marble column lands close to his feet and he shouts something at one of his men. The man is returning back to him, leaving the others to approach a cackling Moriarty and standing close to Mycroft. The contrast in the characters of both these men is scary.”

“Now, there is destruction everywhere. Moriarty is hopping over a fallen column and Mycroft is looking around for his umbrella. I know he’s going to open it and miraculously, save them all from the stream of shards and metal debris directed at them. Yes, he’s done that now. There is something more though, something new this time. Oh god, no!”

Sherlock had been listening to all this as dispassionately as John was narrating them but now, John suddenly sounded himself, voice scared and stuttering. Sherlock took a look at him and he was sweating, eyes closed but flickering underneath his lids.

John’s voice stopped, and Sherlock took one look at Molly. When she nodded, he approached the recliner and got down on his knees, taking John’s hand in his own and whispering words of comfort. If they thought John’s nightmare was over, they were wrong.

“They are looking at me. Oh god, I think they might have noticed me. I want to run but I don’t think I’m fast enough. Mycroft looks confused as he stares at my face but Moriarty is overjoyed. I can see the veil getting pierced, the people under their platform are slowly disappearing and others are just walking on and Moriarty is looking at me. Mycroft is screaming “NO!” at him but he is clutching at the object in his hands, laughing like a child, and…” John’s voice stopped almost instantly and Sherlock was just going to shake him out of his nightmare when he came back, speaking with the same dull and detached tone he had been using before.

“I was wrong. They were looking through me. Something moved through me and I think that it’s a plane, an aeroplane full of people, screaming, as its nose crashes through my head and I can’t feel anything, but Mycroft looks surprised. Like he hasn’t seen an aeroplane before but the man next to him is working out a sweat trying to dodge the plane. Ultimately, he grabs Mycroft by the arm as the plane starts to get closer and they hide behind a pair of fallen columns. The plane crashes on the platform and Moriarty’s laughter is louder than the sounds of screaming people. Taking a last look at Mycroft, he jumps down, into the world below.”

Sherlock hadn’t left John’s hand during this last bit, even when John’s voice had calmed down within a few syllables of realising that he wasn’t discovered. He waited for John to come around, the prospect of his own session seeming more unattractive now than ever.

“John?” He whispered as John started to open his eyes, taking the handkerchief offered by Molly to wipe his forehead.  
“I’m fine,” John’s voice was quiet but he wasn’t shaking. He gulped down the glass of water Molly handed him and Sherlock was still holding his hand all this time.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m fine.” Leaning forward, he planted a chaste peck on his lips, feeling Sherlock shuddering. He had never expected the entire thing to be so nerve wracking. Hearing it like a story and actually listening to it like it was happening in the present and around them, with John so close to the centre, was something that had rattled Sherlock. He leaned up to steal another kiss and rested their foreheads together. John’s skin was feverish and still slightly damp but his voice was stronger now as he whispered nonsense.

“So, you two are… together then?” Molly’s voice immediately brought them back to the world. This wasn’t 221B, they were in her study and next was Sherlock’s session.

“Yes, uhm…I thought you knew.”  
“I had a doubt, certainly, but I was never really sure.” She smiled at them, unshaken and unaffected by everything that had happened in the last 15 minutes. That’s what she was like now, Sherlock noticed. She had not minded in the least when they had told her about wanting to have twin sessions and not on their usual day but three days before it. She had been quite glad, in fact.

“That explains it, though,” she said thoughtfully, the smile not leaving her face but never reaching her eyes.  
“Explains what?”

John never got the answer to that question because just then, there was some activity outside the room. Loud voices talking to each other – women. Before they could even think, the door was kicked open and there stood Anthea.

She smiled at Molly. As John, who was a little dizzy from standing up too quick, turned around to look at his psychiatrist, Molly slid off the chair and clutched at her throat, gasping dry sobs, her nails leaving marks from clawing down her neck.

“What- What the fuck are you doing? Molly…” John approached her, trying to look around for water but she just kept gagging on her own throat while Anthea just stood there, smiling at the spectacle.

“Sherlock do something!” He felt desperate, like his own breath was catching in his throat.  
  
“What have you done to her? Anthea!!” Sherlock screamed at her, somewhat breaking her out of the stupor and the look of pure bliss that was written all across her face.

“Nothing, I just wiped off the part of her memory which tells her how to breathe.” She sighed, picking up a magazine from the side table and flipping through it.

“You can’t do that, it’s an involuntary function.” Sherlock whispered, eyes scanning Molly before he was holding her up and instructing her to inhale.  
  
“I know! That’s why it’s so brilliant!” Anthea replied, putting the magazine down and looking ecstatic at the mix of curiosity and fear on Sherlock’s face.

“Just stop it! Stop this, please!” John whispered as Molly started losing consciousness, her throat giving a few dry gulps before she froze, lifeless and limp.

John was sure he screamed at Molly’s lifeless body, the smile of their conversation gone from her lips. But after that, it was all darkness for John and Sherlock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Molly, I didn't wanna do that, I swear.


	10. Chapter 10

John woke up somewhere around noon, all tangled limbs and toasty warm, Sherlock’s leg thrown over him, keeping him in place. The sun prickled the back of his hair and after a few covert movements, trying not to wake Sherlock up and failing, John kissed the insufferable man good morning and extracted himself from his death grip of morning kisses and if he was feeling good, maybe even morning sex.

In all this morning domesticity, his eyes still wearing the sleep from last night, John was suddenly hit by a wave of panic and nausea as the image of Molly Hooper’s dead body invaded his mind and spirit, making him get up a tad too quickly and throw up in the garbage bin next to Sherlock’s bed.

“How did we get here?”  
“What are you talking about?” came Sherlock’s muffled voice, face still stuffed in the pillow.

“Yesterday… my session- Molly Hooper…” his head hurt really bad, some tea was in order.  
  
“I’m going to get dressed and make some tea, wake up quickly and I think… this might be a good time to talk to Mycroft.”

Sherlock shot him a quizzical look, putting on his shirt and massaging his temples, face crumpled from sleep.  
  
“Talk to Mycroft? About what?”  
“About what happened yesterday!! I think we need to act quickly. God, I wonder how we got here... Do you think they got rid of Molly’s body? I am seriously considering calling up Lestrade after you’ve spoken to Mycroft.” He started putting on his clothes, rubbing his face to make sense of everything.

“John, I have no idea what you are talking about… Who’s Molly?”

 

***

 

They had been at it for the past one hour or so. At first, John felt like he’d dreamt it all and a certain part of his mind hoped the same. When Sherlock insisted that they’d just tumbled into bed, he even started believing in it. But then the inevitable happened – he suggested that they call Molly, just to make sure that she’s alright and Sherlock repeated the same thing. “Who’s Molly Hooper?”

His face felt numb from shock. Sherlock wasn’t kidding, he was serious. When John tried to tell him all about the dreams and the sessions they had been having, he laughed, he actually laughed out loud. _What was going on?_

Now, John was sitting in the living room, his head in his hands, trying hard to hold on to reality, to his convictions and it was then that Anthea’s words from last night floated right in front of him –

_“I just wiped off the part of her memory which tells her how to breathe…”_

“No! No, it can’t be. I just-” He muttered to himself, beginning to feel sick again. But why did they let him go? Why? A selfish part of him envied Sherlock at having forgotten everything. John would give anything to forget all that was happening to him right now, everything that had been happening to him these past few months. Oh, how wonderful that would have been! But now, he was all alone. No Sherlock to help him. Alone, grappling with his own state of mind about what’s real and what’s not.

Maybe he was going crazy, maybe he imagined everything. He tried hard to forget the way Molly’s face screwed up in agony, the marks of her nails running down her neck and disappearing inside her shirt, nail paint chipped off the edges, mauve nail paint. No, it couldn’t be madness? Could it? It felt so real that it made him sick even thinking about it.

 _Just breathe_ , he told himself. _Breathe. Maybe Sherlock got knocked on the head or something, maybe he’ll just walk out of his room and say that he does remember it, that he was kidding._ The childishness of the hope made him laugh a little.

It all came back to Mycroft, in the end. Mycroft Holmes and his secretary… if that’s what Anthea was. God knows what else he was yet to uncover. And why were they playing with him, making his life and his head their playground. What was he missing? He would have been so grateful to have Sherlock by his side right now, formulating plans or simply, holding John’s hand. Even a simple gesture like that would have brought some warmth back into John’s cold feet. He felt hopeless, lost, gone.

There, with the walls of 221B closing in on him, London seeming too loud and suffocating, John Watson started crying. He covered his face so that he won’t have to see the world. His heart felt like it was made from lead and every tear was a bullet leaving him, not cleansing him but hitting him with fresh waves of hopelessness. If he just ran away from all this or maybe, just killed himself, it would all be over, he thought. Even if this was just his madness, what better way to escape it?

Sherlock walked out of his room, his silence reeking of unsaid words and John got up, reaching out to him, tear tracks invisible, bright. He cupped his face in his hands and whispered, “Sherlock, don’t you remember anything? These past months, all the confusion, my nightmares, nothing? How can you not remember anything? How-” Sherlock took his hands and made him sit down on the couch, his chin resting on John’s knees.

“It was all a dream, John. It was all your imagination. Maybe, your brain concocted something unbelievable to help you escape the dreariness of your existence. Your existence after Afghanistan. You miss the war, the action and nothing I do, nothing we do, will ever be enough to make you feel like that again. And so, you imagined all this – your nightmares, my brother being a what- demigod or something, some guy called Moriarty, even Molly Hooper, your psychiatrist. You just need to-”

“No! I don’t care if you don’t believe me. If you think that I’m mad, they so be it. I know I’m not. It was not my imagination, Sherlock, can’t you see what’s going on!” He flipped their coffee table and felt some amount of satisfaction at the way Sherlock flinched. This was good – anger – yes, this made him think clearly. It even made him feel alive, even if just a bit.

As Sherlock reached out for his phone in his pocket, John almost charged towards him, pinning him against the wall, their faces almost touching.  
  
“It’s true. It’s real, everything I said, it’s all true.”  
“You’re going mad, John.”  
“I think I can prove it to you.”

He let Sherlock go, running upstairs and into the attic where they had kept the cardboard box back. He discovered it under the carpet with burn marks and it was this thing more than anything else that finally made him realise that it was all over, everything. He might even die, what with people who could wipe off memories with a look of their eye on a lookout for him. But he soldiered on, dragging the carpet with the memory of Sherlock’s burnt fingers off the box.

The lid was open, the tape having a clean tear from John’s pen knife. He opened it and heard Sherlock come behind him, sighing infuriatingly.

“Do you remember this box, Sherlock?” He found the album with the H on the top right corner of the cover and flipped to the last page. Moriarty seemed to be laughing at him from the yellowing paper. He showed the album to Sherlock and waited for any comprehension to dawn into those brilliant eyes. None did. Sherlock merely looked more confused than before. He stared from John to the picture, the workings of his mind almost audible to John.

Flipping back, he went through the same pictures they had seen that day, sitting on the living room floor, Sherlock scowling and John laughing merrily. It seemed to have happened ages ago, even centuries. If John had known back then that he would lose Sherlock 2 days later, lose his best friend and partner, would he have gone through with the investigation? Would he have discontinued the sessions? He didn’t know the answer to it. Right now, all he knew was that he had to leave. He had to do it alone and he had to finish what he started. Even if it meant that he might die from the effort of it all but he was certain that he would die from not knowing. Somehow, it seemed important that he carry on. It was a feeling, a gut feeling. Also, it was anger. What was it that Mycroft Holmes didn’t want him to discover? Why was he making it certain that John stop this right now? It was enough to put the fire in his belly that he needed that time.

“How do you know about this box?” Sherlock muttered, fingers running over the signature of his grandmother over the sketch of him and Mycroft.

“It’s alright,” John whispered, taking the album from him and pushing it inside the box. He took Sherlock’s face in his hands, breathing loudly and steeling himself. Standing on tiptoe and brushing his lips against him, probably for the last time, John left Sherlock standing there in the dusty attic, alone but certainly not as alone as himself.

“I love you,” John whispered. As the door of 221B closed quietly, Sherlock realised that John had never said that to him before.

John Watson’s feet scrunched outside over the pavement. He looked at his phone and knew the first thing that he had to do.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Anthea and her associates, Shah and Colfer, got out of the Mercedes Benz E-Guard as it moved off to circle the block. They made their way to Sheringham Court, Flat Number 7. She was thinking about how she would finish her task. She had quite a few options, the way she saw it. The quickest was obviously using a very physical method, like a gun or a lethal injection of some sorts. But it lacked the finesse that she so loved to inject into every action. She liked spending that little bit more time working out an elegant and less obvious solution. Like the way she organised surveillance for Mr Holmes.

Instead of wasting her resources on petty, low-level surveillance, she would ‘recruit’ normal people to do the work for her. It came almost like second nature to her. She would simply get a group of people with proximate access to the target, but not too close, of course, and bend their minds and memories to help keep an eye out for her.

So, guns, injections and the lot were definitely off limits. After debating with a myriad of interesting choices popping into her head, she soon settled on her option. They had reached the door of Flat Number 7.

“Key,” Anthea demanded, holding out her hand over her shoulder. There was no helpful movement behind her. She turned and raised an eyebrow at the two women following her. They shuffled about and stared at the floor, the ceiling, and the walls of the corridor.

“Yes? May I ask why there is no key in my palm yet?” Anthea whispered, her eyes narrowing, her patience narrowing even more.

“Uhm…I thought she had it, ma’am,” muttered Colfer, fiddling with her Lucrum cufflinks. Anthea’s patience was shrinking fast. She turned to Shah.

“I…” Shah stuttered, not meeting her gaze. Anthea had remembered by then that she had assigned the task of getting the duplicate key to Shah and had asked Colfer to follow up and remind her. She wanted to cut this conversation short as the delay was getting on her nerves. They were wasting precious time. Before the persons inside the room could get out, she decided to put an end to this idiocy.

“Alright, then” she whispered, pausing and sizing both the ladies up. Shah seemed slighter and had skinnier legs. So she turned to her and said, “Kick that door open.”

“But… but…,” she cried out.

“You forgot your task. You should have got the key,” Anthea snapped at her.

Shah paled visibly. Her legs began to tremble. She stammered, “Wh- Why?”

“Because this way, you two will remember my orders better,” Anthea smiled, “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll deal with the pain for the moment.”

Anthea reached into Shah’s mind and quickly began to feel for the pain centre. She was impressed by Shah’s mental defences, though. The closest analogy was a mud wall with spears stuck in it. Enough to keep off an amateur’s powerful yet hasty cavalry charge, but scarcely a threat to a veteran general’s determined infantry attack. She stepped over them with little effort. She reached the pain centre.

The pain centre of a person’s mind often took the shape of the first injury they had ever suffered. That sensation served as a blueprint and scale against which all other pain signals would be compared. It felt like an open wound to her mind’s touch. She now had two options- she could either flood the pain centre with such an agony that all other signals of pain would be blocked out from the brain, or she could temporarily numb the pain centre by closing the gaping wound in Shah’s mind, effectively wiping her memory of pain. She chose the latter.

Shah felt the change in her psyche. All the little uncomfortable things, the shoes that were just a little too tight, the engagement ring that bit into the flesh just a little bit, the little niggling pain around the nape of the neck from the new tattoo, suddenly felt nothing. Anthea saw the sudden lack of sensation from these pains in Shah’s eyes. She did not need to be subtle with Shah because the target mind knew what was coming. But with such basic physical and emotional sensations like pain, pleasure, happiness and others, one needed to hold on to the pseudo-physical objects in the target’s mind to make the effect last. The moment one lost that touch or grip, the sensations would return to normal.

“Kick that door down now, we do not have a lot of time,” Anthea snapped.

Shah stepped up to the door and gave it one good, swift yet powerful kick. Anthea felt the wound pulse and twitch under her mind’s touch. She held on and did not let it release any memory. The mind could not gauge how much that kick would have hurt the body if it had no blueprint to compare it to. It began to do the next best thing. Shah’s mind began the process of registering this new information as a new feeling, since it could not feel the older one. The mind instinctively knew that this sensation was pain, so another would begin to open up next to this one. Anthea quickly reached over and sealed it. Having multiple centres for the same feeling would multiply their effect. Thus, multiple pain centres would leave the victim crippled with even something as small as a stubbed toe.

In the meantime, they had entered the living room. Anthea saw Doctor Hooper, Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes sitting on the chairs and couches. They seemed to have been discussing something quite important. Anthea would have considered finding out what it was that they were talking about, but she did not have the time or patience for it. She quickly began to scope out Molly’s mind. Every individual mind, Anthea had found, was unique and different. Everyone had a similar overall make-up. However, the exact locations and ‘appearances’ of the feelings, sensations and memories varied between people. Anthea was very quick with her work. She soon found what she was looking for.

It felt like a makeshift bladder, held together by a series of stitches, expanding and contracting on its own and suspended in mid-air. This was the Doctor’s representation of her action of breathing. The motion of this bladder mimicked the motion of every single cell in the Doctor’s respiratory system. Anthea deftly reached out and slit it open from the top, working on the first stitch in such a way that the ones following it would slowly unravel on their own. Every single bit of the respiratory system would collapse slowly and painfully, making drowning seem kinder.

The effect was immediate. She saw Doctor Hooper clutching desperately at her throat, stunned and scared witless at her sudden inability to breathe. Doctor Hooper would be dead within a minute.

Anthea smiled at her handiwork as Doctor Watson rushed to her yelling, “What- What the fuck are you doing? Molly… Sherlock do something!” He exclaimed, his terror manifesting itself in the sound of gunfire and the cries of men dying. This piqued Anthea’s interest. The Doctor seemed to have taken the war quite poorly.

“What have you done to her? Anthea!!” Sherlock screamed at her, somewhat breaking her out of the stupor.

“Nothing, I just wiped off the part of her memory which tells her how to breathe,” she sighed, picking up a magazine from the side table and flipping through it.

“You can’t do that, it’s an involuntary function,” Sherlock whispered. He had reached Doctor Hooper and he was holding her neck up, instructing her on how to breathe.

“I know! That’s why it’s so brilliant!” Anthea replied, putting the magazine down and looking ecstatic.

“Just stop it! Stop this, please!” John whispered. Molly gasped for a few dry gulps before freezing, lifeless and limp.

“Ladies, would you please do the honour?” Anthea asked stepping back slightly. Shah and Colfer stepped forward and then the three of them began wiping off the memories from the minds of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, as per Mycroft’s orders. As soon as their work was done, which hardly took a few seconds with Anthea’s deft touches, Shah and Colfer stepped forward and released an atomized spray of chloroform in Sherlock’s and the Doctor’s faces.

They left them there, Anthea texting Ibanescu to drop them at 221B and taking the magazine with her. Doctor Hooper had quite a collection of Vogue and she would spare herself the effort of buying it. After all, Molly didn’t need them anymore and someone might as well make good use of them. The moment Shah closed the door behind her, Anthea got down the stairs and into the car, instructing the driver to drive away, not bothering to see Shah’s slight form fall down the stairs and on the landing, sudden pain from her leg etched across her face.

 

***

 

Anthea had changed into a sharp white shirt and a crisp black suit over it. She chose a pair of deep black trousers to go with the outfit. She quickly applied some Bvlgari on her wrists and stepped out of her house in Roberts Mews. The BMW F10 535i was waiting in the courtyard. 5 minutes later, she was stepping out in front of the blue door of 18, St. Luke’s Street.

She made her way to the study and nodded to the steward waiting at the door in the bedroom.

“There will be 23 others coming in,” she informed him, “Let them all in and then bolt the main door from the inside. We would be expecting no more visitors.”

There were chairs in the room that had been arranged around a large rectangular table. Mycroft Holmes was already there, waiting for her at the head of the table. She went up to him and sat on the chair to his right.

“Was it quick?” he inquired casually.

“Of course. And painless too, I imagine. As painless as it can be,” she replied, “I stopped her breathing.”

“Ahh, the ‘painless’ point may be debateable then,” Mycroft said, without looking up from his book.

“Well, they do not complain,” she said lazily, “And what may be misinterpreted as pain might just be simple shock and discomfort at having suddenly lost the ability to draw in air.”

Mycroft looked at her for a few long and drawn-out moments. He disapproved of the method, she could tell. She sighed, “I suspect stimulus that would end in the target dying would, by definition, be at the least grossly uncomfortable.”

“Maybe,” he muttered, leaning back into his chair.

Soon the others began to shuffle in. Colfer and Shah were the last to come in. Shah was limping on the one good leg she had, her partner supporting her weight on her shoulders. It pleased Anthea to no ends.

“Is something the matter, Miss Shah?” Mycroft Holmes inquired, looking a bit troubled.

Shah caught Anthea’s eye before replying. “Oh I just forgot the keys to my house, Sir. I began searching for the spare while walking back towards the lift to go to Anna’s place and I tripped over a flower pot.” Shah quickly looked away from Anthea and Mycroft, and made her way to sit down gingerly.

“Dear me, Miss Shah. You really ought to remember your keys,” Anthea said reproachfully, “And Miss Colfer, surely it would not take you too much effort to remind her to do so, would it?”

They both looked away. Anthea smiled at them. Mycroft looked between Anthea and the two women sitting at the other end of the table. He knew something was amiss, but he did not press the matter.

He stood up and addressed the small gathering, “I have gone over the reports you and your spies have submitted. There is a remarkable increase in the frequency of the incidents that we have now come to call ‘roguish behaviour’. Not only that, there also seems to be greater deviation from the predicted path in these individual events than ever before.

“Take for example the fact that in Tolkien’s universe, on their way to aid the warriors of Gondor in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, the Rohirrim of Rohan promise to aid Ghân-buri-Ghân’s Drúedain people. The prophecy makes no mention of any such event. In fact, the Drúedain people are mentioned only once in all the prophecies related to Arda. It says that once the King of Gondor is returned unto the throne, he will vanquish all his enemies and claim all of Sindarin Endor for himself. It is mentioned herein that he will battle and annihilate the Drúedain. This is clearly not what is happening.

“Meanwhile, in Sanderson’s universe, the Worldbringer Sazed has stopped preaching because his emotions have begun to get the better of him. This man, as some of you might know, is supposed to teach and preach the religions of Scadrial as they were before the Ascension of The Lord Ruler. He is supposed to be a tireless champion of this cause who never stops trying to preach and suggest religions to those around him. It was supposed to be his driving force. There are dark days ahead, the prophecies say, and Sazed needs something strong and stable to help him make it through. His passion for the lost religions is what the prophecies say will guide him through. His end seems near.

“On the other hand, in London Below, Anaesthaesia has been taken by the Night at Knightsbridge. She was supposed to have been rescued by Richard Mayhew. She was supposed to have seen him through all the way to the Floating Market. Instead we now see that she has been claimed by the Night.

“There are many other such incidences that are occurring throughout our worlds. In Scadrial, in Roshar, in Arda, in London Below, in The Faraway Tree, in Arelon and many other worlds. These incidents are remarkable. There must be some vital link or connection that holds all these events together and causes them to happen because, as most of you know, the prophesies have never lied before. Not to this extent, at least. I fear that what has started off as roguish behaviour in relatively unimportant moments would percolate down to major events and disrupt the balance of our worlds.”

Anthea watched the others as they pondered over these words. One of the few Eisentreibs looked up and suggested, “Could it have something to do with some imbalance in the forces of nature? Is it possible, my Lord, that perhaps it was something you did quite some ages ago that is now causing all these changes and deviations?” Hoid asked.

Anthea did not like the tone he had used. “What are you insinuating, Hoid?” she asked calmly, her eyebrow raised.

Hoid looked taken aback and a bit apprehensive, “Nothing my Lady. I was merely offering a possible solution.”

“A solution that would imply a lack of judgement of some sort on the part of our Lord?” she demanded.

“No, my Lady. I am most sincerely apologetic if my words have caused harm, my Lord, my Lady,” muttered Hoid quickly.

“Enough, Anthea,” Mycroft Holmes commanded, “He was only offering to help as best as he can.”

Mycroft Holmes turned to Hoid and said, “Hoid, the prophecies and our worlds do not work quite so simply. There is very little that I can do to change or influence the way things and events play themselves out. I might know months in advance, for instance, that someone at this table may suffer from a heart attack and he or she would die right here. But there is nothing I can do to prevent it from happening. Our task is to ensure that the prophesies are fulfilled as best as possible. Nothing more.”

Anthea steepled her long, thin fingers. This was, indeed, inexplicable and mysterious. There had been minor deviations from the prophesied paths in the past. Samwell Tarly was supposed to go with Gilly to Horn Hill to ensure that she got a respectable place in the house. Kaladin was supposed to be assigned to Bridge Seven. But the events that followed were minor deviations from the prophecies. They usually would just ignore them as mere chance occurrences that did little to change the overall prophecy for the world in question. After all, even the smallest and most unimportant of fictional people could decide to change their fate or at least, fight against it.

“Should we maybe wait and see for ourselves if something major does come out of this?” she offered after many long moments of thought.

Mycroft Holmes looked at her thoughtfully and replied, “These may be random occurrences that just happened to have developed all at the same time. But on the off chance that there is something more, for lack of a better word – sinister - behind all these changes and deviations, then it is best that we be prepared.”

Anthea and the others nodded at that.

“So tell me then, has anyone here, at this table, had any strange personal experiences, off late? Something that did not quite feel right?” Mycroft Holmes asked, looking around.

Everyone seemed lost in thought. That was a very strange question. Most of these men and women, Cristveggen and Eisentreibs of great power and skill, had been on the fighting lines for so long now that hardly anything seemed strange or out of the ordinary to them. It was then that Peterson, one of her newer recruits, spoke up.

“Well,” he muttered hesitantly, “There was one thing. It did not seem strange or weird until now, but it may be of some import or it may just be a false alarm. Either way, this is what happened to me the other day. I was assigned to the duty of maintaining surveillance on Doctor John Watson. I watched him enter the National Museum with Sherlock Holmes. As I was making my way behind them, keeping a close watch on the two, I suddenly felt someone’s touch inside my mind. It was for a fleeting second. And I am very certain that the person- whoever it was- was neither known to me nor did they spend a lot of time inside my head. I was quick to get the intruder out of my mind. I had just finished training with Madam Anthea on how to deal with intruders without them realising, until it is too late, that they are being thrown out of one’s mind.” Peterson looked at Anthea and Mycroft Holmes with a mixed look of apprehension and confusion.

“You fool! Why didn’t you mention this in any of your reports to me?” demanded Anthea. Perhaps his promotion higher up the order came a bit too soon. Mycroft Holmes would not be pleased with this. She looked at him. He looked unperturbed, but deeply thoughtful.

“Like I said Madam, I did not think much of it. I just thought that it was one of our lot trying to get in touch with me. Over something trivial, I thought,” he replied, his eyes staring fixedly at the varnished table. “Perhaps I jumped at the relatively unfamiliar touch early on. Then I whisked them off. And then, since the task was probably not too important, that person did not contact me.”

Anthea opened her mouth to tell Peterson exactly what she thought of this explanation when Mycroft Holmes interjected, “So tell me, Peterson, is it? Anyway, tell me. You did not feel anything or anyone come up against your defences? Like some kind of a shadow. As if the walls around your mind are simply being almost literally overshadowed by something gigantic?”

“No, my Lord,” replied Peterson.

“Hmm. Interesting. Curious. And you are fairly certain that this person, whoever it was, friend or foe, spent little more than a few fleeting moments in your mind?” asked Mycroft Holmes, leaning forward in his chair.

“Absolutely certain, my Lord,” replied Peterson confidently.

“Hmm. Very well then. You are green, as yet. I am letting you off the hook for now. But do not think for one moment that what you did by not reporting this to your immediate superior is right. I am merely condoning your error because something tells me that we will need as many people as we can get for the days to come,” Mycroft Holmes sighed, leaning back into the chair.

“Yes, my Lord. I am sorry, it will never happen again. I assure you, my Lord.” Peterson said confidently. Anthea would personally make sure that this never happened again. She would need to ensure that no iota of information was lost before it got to her.

The rest of the meeting proved to be inconclusive. All they knew was that there was a sharp spike in the amount of rogue behaviour in all their worlds and that they had absolutely no idea who or what was behind it all. It may all be natural or it may not, only time would tell. For now the only thing they could do was tighten the surveillance in and around their respective worlds and keep an eye out for anything strange, which could literally be anything.

Just before she left, Anthea handed Mycroft Holmes a file marked Top Secret in big bold red letters.

“This is not the time or place for this file, Anthea.” Mycroft Holmes said with an eyebrow raised.

“It is the updated file on Doctor John Watson, my Lord. You had asked for it,” Anthea replied, puzzled at Mycroft Holmes’ sudden lapse in concentration.

“Ah yes, I am so sorry. Keep it on the table please, Anthea.”

Mycroft sighed as Anthea left and closed the door to the study behind her. Meetings were always exhausting. Meetings like this one, even more so. What frustrated him most was not the exhaustion per se; it was the fact that all this effort of meeting people and talking to them and interacting with them was, in this case at least, completely futile. They were no closer to finding out what was going on than they were before they began.

He rubbed his eyes and picked up the file Anthea had just handed him. He had a lot to think about. All these people who were behaving differently, if it turned out that there indeed was some connection, Mycroft would probably never forgive himself. Whatever be the end result, good or bad, Mycroft wanted to know. It was at times like this that he cursed himself for having asked Anthea to do what she had done.

She was not too keen on the idea. She felt that Mycroft was letting a huge potential talent rot away by doing what he asked of her. But despite her differences of opinion, Anthea always obeyed Mycroft. She was not one of those people who had an unquestioning kind of loyalty. She was her own woman, but she knew that Mycroft’s plans and vision were inherently greater than her own. Although that knowledge did not stop her from ever speaking out against him, if she felt like it, but it did prevent her from rising up against him in stark rebellion. And he admired that in her.

He was thinking about all the things that were going wrong around him and desperately trying to figure out a connection. He had read the prophecies related to all of his lands over and over again, but to no avail. The disturbances were simply too random, as if something big and ponderous was pushing people to break their pattern in ways that even the said force could not control. The more Mycroft thought about it the more he grew convinced that whatever was behind these disruptions was far from benign.

He leaned forward and picked up the file Anthea had left for him on the table. It was all the information that he had managed to collect on Doctor John Watson since the day he had decided to become his brother’s flatmate. Family photos, familial background check, school records, college history, military records, dental records, psych evaluation by the army psychiatrist that mentioned a “prominent post-traumatic stress manifesting in a psychosomatic limp amongst other things”. John was the classic case of a war-torn soldier. He had it all, bad dreams, onset of depression from being discharged from the only life he knew for a long time, even a psychosomatic limp.

A mind bearing all of these afflictions would be a very soft target. It ought to have taken Mycroft hardly a few nudges to have John eating out of his hand. And yet he had been unsuccessful. In all these years he had never once been unsuccessful at his art. It made no sense to him. He went through John’s file for the umpteenth time now, and yet, there was no rational explanation to why he had not been able to manipulate John when they met at the café the other day.

As was his habit, Mycroft’s mind began to wander off to tackle his other problems. He was absently flicking through the surveillance file on John when suddenly it hit him. He sat upright, staring at the file. It was open at a page that described John’s medical discharge.

He began to focus on a set of small rogue events which by themselves were not of any consequence but stuck out to Mycroft’s keen and discerning eyes. Although these events were inconsequentially small, they occurred through almost all the worlds that he oversaw. Scadrial, Roshar, Arda, the Earth of Westeros and Essos, The Faraway Tree, the Land of Oz, and many more showed their first signs of abnormally roguish behaviour on the same day. From that day on, the nature of roguish behaviour began to get more aggressive, but never before nor even since, had there been so many different incidents of roguish behaviour across so many worlds.

In order to get a better understanding of their different timelines, Mycroft converted the dates on which these incidents occurred into his own timeline. And the number he arrived at was staring right back at him in the report. All these incidents occurred on the 23rd of November, 2008, by his reckoning. This was the exact day that John received his debilitating injury that rendered him unfit for active military service.

And then it all came tumbling down, everything he had thought he knew about the man, everything he had guessed. It was all wrong. Initially, Mycroft had shown an interest in John because he suspected Sherlock and his mind were intertwined because of the fierce loyalty and love they felt for each other. And it never bode well for someone to be close to someone like Mycroft or John. That was the main reason why he had never told Gregory Lestrade about his true feelings towards him. People always got hurt when they got close to them and that was the curse Mycroft had to bear. What had started as a mere curiosity and precautionary measure suddenly seemed terribly important. Molly Hooper’s words about John witnessing the great battle rang in his ears and now, he knew it wasn’t just because of his closeness to Sherlock. It was something more, something terribly devious.

Mycroft felt joy and apprehension flood him at the same time. He had finally seemingly stumbled upon _something_ that he could use, yet at the same time it was something that was related to his little brother. If the feeling of foreboding that he was having was even slightly correct, then he would be forced to eliminate John, for the greater good. But he did not want to leave his brother utterly friendless and alone. He did not know what to do.

“Let us not get ahead of ourselves now,” he mumbled to himself, “Best call Anthea to find John’s whereabouts and have a little chat with him and Sherlock.”

He took out his mobile phone, the moment of panic and exhilaration having soon passed, and called Anthea. She received his call before the first ring.

“Where is John?” he inquired.

“I don’t know right now. I’ll ask and get back to you,” Anthea replied. “Is something the matter, my Lord?”

Mycroft wondered for a bit about whether or not to let Anthea in on his hunch. “I’m not sure but we shall find out when we meet John,” he said thoughtfully. “Tell me again, when you attempted to modify Sherlock’s and John’s memories of that rather unfortunate incident, their minds behaved perfectly normally? You wiped it clean off both their minds?” Mycroft asked, somewhat pointedly.

“Yes, of course, Sir,” Anthea promptly replied. “They will not remember a thing about Doctor Watson’s sessions with Doctor Molly Hooper. In fact, as you had suggested, to them, Doctor Molly Hooper does not even exist anymore.”

“We shall see,” Mycroft muttered under his breath. Before Anthea could ask what he was talking about, Mycroft ordered, “Anthea, message me his location and we shall meet there. I’ll try to get my brother along too.”

“Give me five minutes, Sir, and you will get the location,” Anthea whispered and cut the call.

As Mycroft got ready to meet his brother and thought about how he could try to convince Sherlock to accompany him to meet with John, wherever he was, he made his way to the Mercedes Benz E-Guard. No sooner had he gotten in, his mobile phone rang.

“Yes, Anthea?” Mycroft was puzzled. Something was wrong.

“That idiot Peterson was supposed to keep an eye on Doctor Watson. When he was with us, he had arranged for a florist down the street from Doctor Watson’s house to keep an eye on the door. When he went back, his source simply told him that the Doctor had left the house and made his way towards the Underground.” Mycroft could feel Anthea’s anger all the way to where he was. Although he usually did not approve of it, on this occasion it was completely justified.

Mycroft sighed and cursed under his breath. It was not supposed to go this way. This was his world. These were all his worlds. He had created them. No one could simply waltz in and destroy them without giving Mycroft even as much as a fighting chance to stop them. He was determined to get to the bottom of this business with John. He curtly said, “We’ll deal with the incompetent one later. Meet me at Baker Street as soon as you can. I’ll be waiting at the door.”

He put the phone in his jacket pocket and asked the driver to get him to Baker Street as fast as possible. He was at 221B in 10 minutes. Just as he got out of his car he saw Anthea’s car turning into Baker Street. He knocked on the door with his umbrella and waited. In a few moments, Mrs Hudson opened the door and smiled at them.

“Why, Mycroft,” she said, her eyes glinting with happiness, “Come on in, I’ll just inform Sherlock while you and your friend take off your coats.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but that won’t be necessary,” Mycroft mouthed. He was far too engrossed in trying to work out where John was at this moment and what he was planning.

“Oh, all right then,” Mrs Hudson returned to her flat, her smile fading slightly.

Mycroft nodded to Anthea and they made their way to Sherlock’s flat. The door was open, as always. They entered the house and saw Sherlock slumped on a chair and reading The Times, a cigarette in hand. He looked up and saw Mycroft and Anthea enter.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted him warmly.

“Good evening, Mr Holmes,” Anthea nodded curtly.

“Yes, what do you want?” Sherlock asked, returning to his newspaper.

“We wanted to have a word with John and you, actually,” Mycroft explained, seating himself on an empty armchair to Sherlock’s left as Anthea made her way to the kitchen to get a wooden chair. Mycroft was pleased with the change John had brought in his younger brother’s lifestyle. The house was no longer cluttered with newspaper clippings, samples from various cases and dust that was testament to Sherlock’s ban on Mrs Hudson’s cleaning activities.

“Well, I’m here,” Sherlock muttered, nose firmly stuck in the newspaper. Mycroft was glad he decided to get Anthea with him. His brother could prove to be utterly intractable when he dealt with him alone.

“Yes, but could you perhaps tell us where John is?” Mycroft asked, staring at the skull on Sherlock’s mantelpiece.

“I thought your not-so-Secret Service would be more useful than this. You ought to consider firing them, Mycroft. Would save the government a whole lot of money,” Sherlock replied through the ruffling as he turned the page. “Why do you need to speak with the two of us, Anthea?”

Anthea looked at Mycroft, not knowing what to say. Mycroft answered, “All in good time, Sherlock. Anyway, do you know where John is?”

“He’s out,” Sherlock muttered.

“When do you expect him to return, Mr Holmes?” Anthea asked.

“Any time now,” Sherlock said.

“Where is he?” Mycroft asked.

“Out to buy milk,” Sherlock replied.

Mycroft knew his brother better than Sherlock thought he did. He knew Sherlock was lying, which could only mean that Sherlock did not know either. Mycroft could not help but get interested in the way this was going.

“So, you don’t know where he is either,” Mycroft said flatly, looking straight into Sherlock’s eyes as he looked at him from behind the newspaper.

“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Anthea asked, looking at Mycroft and Sherlock both. Sherlock had lowered the newspaper.

Mycroft sighed. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers. He looked at Sherlock for a long moment. “We think John may be involved in something rather…” He did not quite know how to finish that statement.

“Serious,” Anthea offered. Mycroft had filled her in on the precious little information he had gathered through the mental link that they shared. It was a sort of information highway between the minds of all Cristveggens. It required that there be a very strong bond between the parties involved. A bond of love, hatred, fear or respect. In Mycroft and Anthea’s case, as with Anthea and her team of Cristveggen spies, the bond was based on the deep-rooted sense of loyalty. It could be used to send and receive ideas and small bits of visual information. It was especially convenient if the two parties are separated by a large distance.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Certain events have been unfolding that we came to know of due to our unique line of work,” Anthea said, lighting a cigarette and blowing a puff of smoke.

“Events of monumental importance, Sherlock. They could change the shape of our whole world,” Mycroft gravely muttered.

“And you think John is part of this… operation?” Sherlock replied, puzzled. “You think John is out to blow apart the world? Have you tried looking for him in Tora Bora or the Jaffna Peninsula? You can start closer to home, Belfast, perhaps?” Sherlock spat.

“I’m not saying he’s consciously trying to destroy the world-”

“Oh so he’s been hypnotised now, has he? How convenient…”

“Look, I know this is rather difficult to grasp, but hear us out, Sherlock.”

“There is nothing to ‘hear out’, Mycroft. This is drivel. Get out of my house.”

“Mr Holmes, please let us explain,” Anthea said, as calmly as she could manage. “There are certain signs that we’ve been noticing over the past few months. These signs indicate that the fate of our world is in grave danger. It isn’t something that we can explain in any terms that will make you believe us, Mr Holmes. But nonetheless, it is true. Our world is under threat from something that we do not yet know. Something that is, for lack of a better word, supernatural.”

Sherlock leaned back into his chair and smiled, “Oh, okay then. Hard to believe, yes. But if two of the most powerful people in this world want me to believe in something, then I will do so. Why don’t you go and talk to Father Christmas about this attack? Maybe he and his elves can team up with your lot and the Easter Bunny and together, you can fight it off.”

 _My Lord, please let me use my powers to make him believe us. This cannot be allowed to continue for much longer. Every second matters._ Anthea pleaded to Mycroft via their mental link.

Mycroft was loath to using his powers on his family. He did not let anyone manipulate Sherlock mentally. Except once. When they had no choice. And recently when, again, his hands seemed to be tied. He couldn’t let Molly help Sherlock tap into his subconscious mind.

Mycroft was thinking back to that day when he had asked Anthea to place the barrier. That barrier was probably the single most important reason they were still stuck having this conversation.

 _No. I’ve told you earlier as well, neither you nor anyone else is to touch Sherlock’s mind except when I order you to. And I will not order it yet._ He replied sternly.

“You do realise, don’t you, Mycroft, that this is one of the most ludicrous things I’ve ever heard from you or your associates; which is really saying something because only a few days ago, you were threatening me with a knighthood.” Sherlock taunted Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled back at Sherlock. He was toying with the idea of telling Sherlock the whole truth since he stepped into his car to get to Baker Street. He knew how intractable and annoying his little brother could get and he did not know what was going on with the worlds and what part John had to play in all that was unfolding. He did not know how much time he had to waste on trying to convince Sherlock to play along and help him get at the bottom of this.

Mycroft steeled himself and spoke to Sherlock, meeting his brilliant eyes with his own, “Sherlock, for once, just hear me out without interrupting me. The things you have heard thus far and that you will be hearing in the next few minutes will seem incredulous and maybe even stupidly hilarious to you. I do not care for your opinion of them. You must hear me out.”

 _Be ready,_ he told Anthea.

Thus, Mycroft began to explain, “Sherlock, you and I are brothers. That means we inherited quite a few things from our parents. Our mother’s stubbornness, our father’s intellect. Her stability, his imagination. Like any normal set of children. But there is one more thing that we got- both you and me. Godhood.”

Sherlock sniggered and opened his mouth to say something.

“Sherlock, shut up. I’ve asked you to hear me out. Please. This is _very_ important and you must not interrupt me during this explanation,” Mycroft sternly chastised his younger brother. He hardened his gaze, as if daring Sherlock to interrupt or mock him. A heartbeat later, he continued, “So, like I said. Our father was a God. Not the kind that whimsically create men and women and animals to populate a planet created by them for their entertainment. A slightly more believable kind. In fact, ‘God’ was not a term he was fond of. Neither am I. What we do, it’s more like simply managing this world and its inhabitants.

“One day father left our house never to come back. My training was not yet complete, but Mother assured me that it was almost over and that I could take the mantle. I never quite understood why Father left us like that- me still untrained, you, barely out of your diapers. But now that I’ve spent so many years bearing his responsibilities, I think I can at least begin to understand his thought process.

“Other than the responsibilities of his office, I, and by extension you too, have also inherited his ability to command certain minerals and bend their internal energies to our will. We can use the metal Lucrum to manipulate other metal objects around us. We can move them around precisely. In addition, we can also use the crystal Animus to manipulate the emotions and subtly change the thoughts of the people around us. I chose to develop this skill more than the other. Animus has many other applications, it is not as limited as Lucrum.” Now he could see that he had Sherlock’s attention and so, he continued.

“It can be used to See into different points in Time and Space. With careful training and patience, one can control exactly what one Sees. It can be used to observe events unfolding at present in faraway lands or it can be used to See events of eras long passed or times yet to come at one’s present location. Or it can be used to See the past or future of another place, far away.

“It can also be used to Clean someone’s memories. It can help people forget painful events in their lives or, if used appropriately, it can be used to modify how one perceives certain memories. It can be used like the waters of Lethe, if used by experienced and well trained hands.

“It can be used to manipulate people’s emotions and, in an indirect way, their thoughts. One cannot directly change or bend people’s thoughts to their will. But with enough practice, effort and subtlety, one can bend people’s feelings and emotions in such a way that their thoughts are influenced. This is the use of Animus that I chose to master. Others choose to master other aspects. We tend to become Jacks-of-all-trades-and-Masters-of-one, so to speak.” Sherlock opened his mouth to ask a question, reminding Mycroft of his younger self just getting into Chemistry, but Mycroft knew what he wanted to know. So, he continued.

“Most people cannot use either of these minerals, but those who can have control over only one of the two minerals. They can either use Lucrum, which takes a lot of time, but is relatively easy to control and manage, or they can use Animus, which does not take so much time as it takes skill, flair and determination to bend to one’s will. Those who can use Lucrum are called Eisentriebs and those who can use Animus are called Cristveggen. Two words derived from early human languages.” Sherlock nodded at that.

“But we, Sherlock, are Gods. We can achieve mastery over both these metals because of our seemingly never ending lives and mental control. In many ways, though, our endless lifespan and incredible command over both these minerals that have played such an important part in shaping human histories is more of a curse than a boon. But I shall leave you to discover that yourself.

“Father had an immense wanderlust. He would take off on seemingly random journeys whenever he deemed it fit and would return after weeks, months, and sometimes even years. From the last journey that he returned from, Father brought along with him a young boy, a few years younger than I was at that time, called James Moriarty. Father met him on one of his travels. After Father left us, he began to help me manage the world. Mother trained him. He was an Eisentreib of phenomenal skill. And he was the only other person I knew of, with the exception of Father, who was also a Cristveggen. However, his Animus skills were quite sloppy.

“As time passed, his ambitions grew. He began to grow ever more rebellious and one day, he gathered a large group of Eisentreibs and Cristveggens loyal to him and tried to wrest power from me. By then, I was beginning to dislike my responsibilities as they were, but I knew that ceding to him would result in utter chaos. He was never meant to wield power. He did not have the balance or composure. So, we fought. I gathered my men to meet his challenge and in the ensuing fight, the world bled. In the end, only we remained - him and me. We fought each other and, since neither could finish off the other, we did the only other thing we could do. We retreated from the battlefield, too injured to continue.”

For a second, Mycroft felt like he was back at the ruins of the Great Battle. He could almost see Moriarty cackling as the plane approached him at breakneck speed and he was pulled aside by one of his men. He could see Moriarty wink at him for the last time and jump down to the world below.

“But it was not like any retreat that you would read in history books.” He continued, trying to shake off his nausea at the memory. “He had damaged my mind. Thus, he wrested from me half the people and lands under my control. He took them by force and the world itself shattered. It created two different worlds where two different ‘Gods’ reign.

“Free from his interference, I decided to rebuild on my terms. I began experimenting with different things. I created worlds whose peoples had different experiences and ‘magical powers’, in their words. I took my time in returning to full strength for I was too busy trying to find out how people react to different worlds and different basic laws of science.

“By the time I was done, you were old enough to start your training but Mother wished for you to have a safe life, away from my experiments, until you were old enough to understand your place in our plans. So I created this world, a world away from prophesies and disruptions. Somewhere you could lead a normal life, a choice I was never offered. There is no magic in this world, except for me and my network of spies. Even then, we do not wantonly use our magic on other people.

“But the peoples of both our world, his and mine, were once kin. When the world shattered and the people separated, they lost all memory of their lives thus far. They forgot that they once had families and friends whom they could not find in their lives anymore. It was as if the Universe was adjusting itself to accommodate for Moriarty’s lust for power and our battle.” This was the part he knew Sherlock would like, the ingenuity of it all.

“But, every once in a while, someone from either of the Worlds gains a slight peek into the way things are in the other world at their present time. His world is farther ahead than mine are, but it is slower than mine. So a couple of days in his world would result in about a week having passed in mine. However, since his world is farther ahead in time, when his people see a glimpse of what our world looks like, they are seeing our future. When they come to, they remember only a hazy memory which they write down and label “fiction” and “books”. Once written, the fate of my worlds is sealed. Thus, these works of fiction are our prophecies of the future and these writers are akin to demigods for us.

“My Seers, led by a man called Drent, look into their world and report on what these people have written. These reports are sent to me and thus, we know what to expect from the future. There is almost nothing anyone can do to change our worlds’ futures, but I find that it is better to know it than to remain in the dark.

“Every once in a while, however, we get some random instances wherein a character or an event pattern break from the prophecy and behave in a rogue manner. These instances are usually insignificant and do not amount to any serious or long-lasting deviations from the overall prophecies. Therefore, we do not usually look into them. However, a few months ago almost all the worlds under my care reported simultaneous cases of such rogue behaviour. This had never happened before. There would be rogue instances in a couple of worlds at a time, at most. Never across all the worlds at once. And since then the seriousness of the deviations has been increasing. The rogue instances are no longer minor deviations from the prophecy in the long term.” He looked at Anthea now and she looked tired as they were nearing the end of their narration. They both knew what they might have to do but Mycroft was still prepared to fight it until he could.

“This set me and my team thinking. We just concluded a meeting to discuss this point. After the meeting, I discovered that the day on which disturbances were reported from all my worlds was, in fact, the day John was injured in battle. That was the day all his troubles began. Sherlock, that was the day his fate was sealed. That day, it was set that he would meet you and enter my safe world. There has to be a connection between him and these growing instances of rogue behaviour. Therefore, we have to you to ask for your help in finding John.”

Mycroft expected Sherlock to ridicule him and ask them to leave him in peace. But that did not happen. He simply sat in his chair, his face expressionless. After what seemed an eternity, Sherlock finally said, “Why should I believe a word of this nonsense? If you and I were indeed Gods, then why can I not remember _anything_ about our Mother’s supposed training? If I was supposed to ‘assist you in managing your worlds’, then surely Mother would have told me something about it. I cannot recall anything of this sort. Mycroft, you’re either trying to play a ludicrously large prank on me or are completely delusional and need a miraculous amount of help. Either way, I cannot begin to understand how you can honestly expect me to believe you.”

Mycroft expected something harsher, but along the same lines as what Sherlock just said. He sighed and leaned back into his chair. He pondered over their situation.

 _Open the door. Make him remember all that we’ve made him forget. That’s the only way now._ He told Anthea.

 _My Lord, it’s way too risky. He can die. He will die._ She promptly replied, as if she almost expected Mycroft to say this.

_That’s a risk I have to take._

_But one that I would have to live with, if he does die._

_Do you think it would weigh light as air on my conscience?_

_I’m not saying that, my Lord. But it is far too risky. It will be easier to just manipulate him. Just get him to find Doctor Watson for us and we need not use him any further._

_No. I cannot do that. I’ve borne this weight for too long now. Stop arguing against me and just do as I say. Unlock the door._

Anthea looked at him and nodded.

 _Wait for my signal._ Mycroft told her.

“You are a logical person, Sherlock. I agree with you when you say that the evidence in front of you does not prove my story. But when Father left, the situation of my world was such that I felt that I did not need you. So, I had Anthea wipe off all those memories. The reason you cannot remember your Godhood is because I had your Godhood wiped off your mind.”

Mycroft sighed. For the first time he could not meet Sherlock’s eyes. He knew they would be, for the most part, unbelieving and a small part feeling betrayed. He could not face either part. Perhaps, because even after telling him everything, he was still leaving a crucial part out, something he had never mentioned to anyone – not their mother, not Anthea. They had all believed in the genuine concern he had for Sherlock’s safety, for his need to keep his little brother out of all this. The pride in his mother’s eyes when he had proposed the idea to her had stopped him from revealing his fears, his father’s last words to him. It seemed that he’d lived for more years than anyone could count. He was tired.

 _Now._ He commanded Anthea and wished there was a God he could pray for this to go well.

 

***

 

This was perhaps the most hilarious, ridiculous and strangely eerie conversation Sherlock had ever had with his elder brother. Sherlock had never been fond of Mycroft ever since he could remember. He was always the pestering elder brother, always nosing about in Sherlock’s private life. Sherlock was not fond of people messing around in his private affairs, and Mycroft was the epitome of messing in people’s private lives. He was almost about to ask Mycroft and Anthea to leave him alone.

And yet, a small part inside him wanted to believe him. The little kid who read stories of dragons and knights and swords and magic almost leapt in joy at the notion that all of his deepest desires might, in fact, come true after all. Sherlock had almost completely forgotten about this little part of himself. And he was amazed at how stubbornly this part held on to this little fantasy his brother weaved in front of him.

Before he could make sense of what was going on, however, he felt something he’d never felt before. It was as if someone was inside his mind. Inside his mind palace. Roaming around freely, without any inhibitions or fear. He saw Anthea nod from the corner of his eye just before this happened, so he knew that somehow, this was Mycroft’s plan. But it made no sense. No one could _enter_ his mind palace. It was a fictitious place. It was a palace he’d imagined up to store memories and data so that he could easily access them later. It was, by definition, _his personal palace_.

He was alarmed and confused. He did not know what to do. For the first time in his life, perhaps, Sherlock felt utterly helpless and panicky. Anthea, he’d assumed it was her, was walking towards the rooms where he kept the earliest of his memories. As he sensed her presence in his head, he sensed, for the first time since he concocted it up, the pseudo-physical feel of his mind palace.

The memories most often used in his cases, information related to chemistry, physics, biology and criminal psychology was stored in big bright halls. Information used less frequently, such as the street maps of most major cities of the world, the information about his contacts in the Homeless Network and other such data was stored in slightly smaller rooms that were somewhat more dimly lit. These rooms had doors whilst the halls near the beginning of his palace were open. As he progressed towards the memories of his childhood, he neared the section of his mind palace that he never used. Information about space, poetry, painting and art of almost all kinds was stored in these dark and cramped rooms. The doors to these rooms were invariably locked. He knew what was in each room, but would have to open the lock and push the door open to gain specific and detailed information. He was surprised at how big this unused wing of his mind palace was.

It was here that he first saw Anthea. She was walking towards the end of the corridor. She seemed to shine, like a siren or ghost of some kind, but the figure was definitely her. It was the same height as her, walked with a similar gait and had dark hair. Sherlock noticed that he himself seemed disembodied. He had a vague sense of his eyes, ears, nose and the skin on his hands, but nothing concrete. He could not feel anything other than his four basic senses. He followed her and watched as she stopped in front of a huge door that had materialised out of thin air. It was bigger than anything he had seen on his way there. Bigger even than the doors of the great halls of science. He could not even begin to imagine what was held inside, or how it came to be. Anthea’s figure proceeded to unlock the door and push it open. He waited with bated breath to see what was inside.

The last image Sherlock could recall from inside his mind palace was that of Anthea being flung out of the way as a veritable flood of memories came crashing down on him. He recalled his Mother’s lessons with Mycroft. Of how he was to help Mycroft manage and care for the peoples of the worlds he had created and how excited he was to start his own training. He remembered how his mother told him of the battle that Mycroft had talked about. Memories of days spent sneaking into his brother’s room and holding his favourite animus studded cufflinks in his hands and willing them to do something. Memories of John’s psychiatric visits. Memory of a woman called Doctor Molly Hooper, John’s psychiatrist and Sherlock’s dear friend. John whispering that he loved him. John’s mouth on his. All these and many more came flooding onto him. It was almost too much to bear. He tried to run, but the flood caught up with him and floored him.

He saw Anthea floating in the turbulent ‘water’ beside him. He tried to grab on to her arm for support. Suddenly, he saw a vision. He was no longer in his own mind anymore. He was inside Anthea’s head. He saw how she killed Molly. How Anthea reached out into Molly’s mind and ripped the bladder floating in the air with a smooth mental strike. He saw Molly writhing, trying to breathe and gasping. He saw himself and John rushing towards her. Suddenly he was back in his own head, in his flooding mind palace.

And just as suddenly he was thrown out. He found himself drenched in sweat, and on the floor. Mycroft was bending over him, holding Sherlock’s head in his arms. He turned his head towards where he knew Anthea was sitting. She was slumped over too, and only just recovering from her fit, it seemed to him. He remembered his vision inside her head, as she killed Molly.

“Did you enjoy it?” Sherlock rasped. “When you killed Molly, did you like it? The way she died, gasping for air. Scared and confused. Did you enjoy yourself?”

Anthea turned away. She did not say anything. She looked confused. Mycroft continued to cradle Sherlock’s head in his arms, close to his chest. He looked up into his brother’s grey-green eyes.

The scared eyes of a God were the last thing he saw before the blackness engulfed him.

 

***

 

Mycroft had moved Sherlock into his bedroom. Two whole days had passed since the day when he had asked Anthea to release the memories of Godhood locked away inside Sherlock’s mind. He had never done something like this before. He had asked Anthea to release certain memories previously Cleaned and locked away in other people’s minds, but they were usually inconsequentially small memories. He had always had his doubts on how the mind would take the blow if such powerful and important memories were released after being Cleaned.

And now that he had done it, he was regretting it sorely. Sherlock had not awoken for more than a few minutes at a time over those two days. Even when he did gain some semblance of consciousness, Sherlock would just flicker his eyes and mutter some incoherent phrases in between groans of agony that made Mycroft’s skin crawl. He blamed himself for what was happening to his younger brother.

“I ought to have listened to Anthea,” Mycroft found himself mumbling once, slumped in an armchair. He had no idea what to do to help or quicken the healing process. He was not even sure Sherlock was healing at all. He tried to reason to himself that the fact that Sherlock was a God meant that his mind would be inherently stronger than any average person’s, but he was not quite ready to fully believe himself on that.

Anthea had fared better in the exchange. _That was to be expected_ , Mycroft thought. _For, after all, she knew what she was doing, unlike Sherlock._ She had stayed with Mycroft for hours after the incident, not saying a word. But Mycroft knew that she was there to try and help in any way she possibly could. After almost 12 hours, Mycroft turned to her. She was still wide awake and alert, the fatigue that she was obviously experiencing was well hidden behind her sharp face.

“You should go home and get some rest, Anthea,” Mycroft said softly. He was thankful for her continued support despite the obvious mental and physical toll this whole episode had exacted on her.

Anthea just looked at him and shook her head. After a while she said, “This is just as much my fault as it is yours, my Lord. I cannot leave the two of you here alone like this. You might need urgent help at any moment.”

“I appreciate your concern and offer, but this is not the only thing we have on our plate at the moment. There are worlds to run, governments to manage, many important things will be on hold. We do not yet know where Doctor Watson is. Go home, get some rest and get back to work on those things. I know it will be difficult for you, especially in your current situation, but Sherlock will be fine soon. Just send me any urgent reports you need help with.”

“But, my Lord-” Anthea protested tiredly.

“Enough, Anthea, you have done more than I had any right to expect of you. But there are things that need to be looked after, and you are the only one I trust to manage them. So, you will go home now and get some rest. Tomorrow is a big day, as they say.”

Anthea nodded, Mycroft’s tone conveying that the discussion was over, and left the two of them in Sherlock’s bedroom. Mycroft simply spent the next half day staring at Sherlock and pondering over the possible consequences of his actions.

He had not moved a muscle until Anthea returned later that day, bearing news about the worlds.

“My Lord, everything is in order. There have not been any major disruptions or reports of rogue behaviour all day. The British government is also running smoothly. Luckily for us, there are no major political developments occurring at the moment in this world,” Anthea smoothly reported.

Mycroft did not say anything. He did not even show any visible changes to indicate that he’d received the information. He did not know what to do. He simply heard Anthea speak. He could not process the information to any extent.

After an hour’s silence Anthea used their mental link to try and get in touch with Mycroft. He had closed his mind off entirely. “You must not take this so hard on yourself, my Lord,” Anthea spoke softly, but firmly.

After almost a minute, Mycroft replied, “He is my brother, Anthea. You have no idea what I feel like. I knew, deep down inside my heart, that he would most probably not survive the process. And yet, I went ahead with it. All because I did not want to give up my powers. All these years, I kept lying to myself. I kept telling myself that I was sick of being this ‘God’. But when the moment came to choose between keeping these powers and keeping my family out of harm’s way, I chose to hold on to my powers.”

Anthea simply looked straight at him. After a moment’s silence, Mycroft whispered in a shaky and raspy voice, “And you know the worst bit? The worst bit is that I know fully well that if given a choice again, I’d still probably choose to keep them.”

“Let me end it,” Anthea firmly said. “Let me get inside his head and quickly put him out of his misery. Like I said earlier, this is as much my fault as it is yours. I struck the blow that put him in this place, albeit on your orders, so command me to put him out of the pain. It will serve as a measure of redemption for us both.”

Mycroft turned to meet Anthea’s gaze. “No,” his voice was quiet, “He is not in control of his mind. Don’t forget, Anthea, that his is still a mind of a God. The mind of a God who has only just rediscovered his Godhood. To top it, he is unconscious. His subconscious mind, like any other being’s subconscious mind, is immeasurably more powerful than his conscious mind. The way it sees things, a vicious and ruthless attack is the best form of defence. Not only will it throw you out of its own territory, it will launch a strong attack on your own mind, leaving your either dead or worse.”

Anthea looked at Mycroft and after a moment calmly replied, “My Lord, you do not know any of that for sure. I mean, I agree that his subconscious mind is strong but you do not know if it will attack my mind or not. Such a thing has never happened before. And I believe I can quell his subconscious mind’s defences.”

Mycroft sighed, “Anthea, I’m done taking risks and chances. I did not pay heed to the voice of reason last time around and look where that has put us all. This time, I will not make the same mistake.”

Anthea nodded and sat back in her chair, looking at Sherlock’s immobile figure on the bed.

After a few hours Sherlock came to himself again. This time however, he was speaking in coherent words. Mycroft rushed over to his little brother’s side.

“What is it Sherlock?” he whispered urgently, “What do you need?”

“John,” Sherlock muttered, “John. Must find John.”

“All in good time,” Mycroft soothingly whispered, “Don’t worry. I will help you find John.” He smiled at his brother as Sherlock passed out once again. This time Mycroft decided to try and find out his brother’s mental condition. For the first time in two days, Mycroft felt confident enough to at least hope that his brother stood a fighting chance.

He reached warily into Sherlock’s mind palace. He hadn’t done this to anyone in a long time. It was beginning to resemble its old self. It was still flooded with the contents of the room that Anthea had so suddenly opened, but those memories were starting to find their appropriate places in his palace. Mycroft helped them organise themselves in Sherlock’s gigantic mind palace. Memories of Sherlock’s childhood, practicing with the minerals, found their way into the room that contained his other childhood memories. Knowledge of the human psyche gained by randomly surfing through his elder brother’s books was guided towards the great hall which held Sherlock’s criminal psychology information. Other memories were herded into different rooms, some used frequently, some used only once in his whole life.

Finally, after what seemed like ages to Mycroft, Sherlock’s mind palace was restored to its former glory. It would still take a little more time for it to function and serve his brilliant brother the way it did before the incident, but Mycroft felt confident that Sherlock would return to normalcy any time now. The great halls and rooms most frequently used were even beginning to light up, glowing with the soft, warm yellow glow of consciousness. Mycroft was pleased with his efforts, and thanked his lucky stars. He did not know what would have happened to him if Sherlock had died.

Mycroft left Sherlock’s mind palace. He had almost forgotten how tiring this used to be. However, just a few minutes after his trudge down Sherlock’s mind, Sherlock’s eyes flickered open. He looked at Mycroft and Anthea, sitting up in his bed. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to shrug off a mild concussion, and looked up at Mycroft.

After a small moment of silence, Sherlock said in a voice as calm and controlled as ever, “I think you should go and look after the rest of the worlds. I will find John and get back to you when I do.”

Before Mycroft closed the door, he heard Sherlock mutter, loudly enough for him to hear, “Appalling organisational skills.” 


	12. Chapter 12

John walked into the Ascot Hyde Park Hotel on Craven Road. The half hour walk to the place did nothing to dampen the sense of anguish and bewilderment in John’s mind about his interaction with Sherlock earlier that day. He had noticed Mycroft’s men trailing him and had gone inside the tube, leaving his phone in there and escaping with the crowd.

He paid the manager money enough for a couple of nights’ stay and trudged up the stairs to his room, too lost in his thoughts to bother waiting for the lift. He slumped on the bed when he entered the room, quickly sliding off his shoes and didn’t even have to pretend to want to sleep to realise his true purpose of wanting to crash. He could feel it in his bones and behind his eyes, that itch of wanting to explore and now, after such a long time, he knew that all he needed was to close his eyes. And so, he did.

_John saw a big blue door with a brass number 18 screwed onto it. For the first time since his nightmares had started, John had a near complete understanding of his situation. He knew, for the first time, what he was supposed to do. And he intended to waste little time doing it. He still did not know where he was or why he was going to do his task- but he did know that there was an impending sense of urgency about it. In fact, he didn’t even know what he was supposed to do and so, he let his feet take him wherever they wanted to._

_Walking up to the door, he tried to open it. It was locked. This had never happened to him before. Still, he rummaged around in his pocket and drew out a broken hairpin. John had become used to carrying one around because of Sherlock. He used one piece of the hairpin as the tension wrench and jimmied the door open with the other piece. The latch gave way and he walked inside the house._

_It seemed like a fairly big house, which was slightly odd considering the cramped look it bore from the outside. John did not waste any time bothering about this. He pressed on, through the first room which had a few chairs and coat stands. He walked into the next room which looked like the living room of the house. Then he walked up the flight of stairs that led up to the upper floor and down the corridor from there, on the first floor towards the door at the very end. The door was unlocked. He opened it and strode in, his gait swift and purposeful. The closer John got to his target, the greater the anxiety inside him to finish this task quickly grew._

_This room appeared to be the master bedroom. He quickly made his way towards the door at the back of room, near the headboard of the bed. This one was locked. He tried to open the door with the hairpin, but to no avail. He tried to break the door down by shoving his shoulder against it, but this too proved useless. John began to get a little frustrated and anxious. He stepped back a few paces and rammed his right shoulder into the door, using his right foot to jump into the door at the last moment. The door frame cracked open and John stumbled into a big room lined with books._

_The ceiling seemed unnaturally high to John. The room was also longer than he would have imagined from the outside. He looked to his left and found another door that was locked. He did not waste time trying to kick the door down. Instead, John propped a chair up against the handle of the door and gave it a swift and powerful kick. The door latch could not stand the sudden force and gave way._

_John threw the chair aside and stepped through the doorway. He found a set of stairs leading up to another floor. John paused for a second, wondering how could a house with only a first floor when seen from the outside have another floor here. But his anxiety and adrenaline got the better of him and he climbed the stairs. There was no door at the end of the steps, simply an unguarded archway that opened up into what could only be described as the attic of the house._

_John could see broken furniture, unused appliances, lone leather covers of old books, and decorative items that would have been the pride of most families at one time but now served no purpose other than to take up space. He saw portrait frames strewn around the room, with pictures of dashing looking men and handsome and intimidating women staring up at him. It did not seem to him that anyone had visited this place in ages, almost literally._

_He looked around the attic for something. He did not quite know what._

_“You’ll know when you see it,” a quiet voice seemed to egg him on, as if barely able to keep its excitement under control._

_John began moving things around to find whatever it was that he was looking for. Everything he touched, from large chests of drawers to small candelabras seemed to resent his presence. John did not quite understand precisely_ how _he knew this, but he could sense that everything in the attic seemed to look upon him, with a kind of disgust and displeasure reserved for guests arriving uninvited at a large party. He was well familiar with the disgust, since he’d seen a certain consulting detective aim it at anything that moved when he was in one of his moods. The portraits almost seemed to frown distastefully at him when he moved them around. This did nothing to help his anxiety. He simply wanted to be out of this place as soon as possible._

_He was in luck, for hidden away behind the large portrait propped up against a broken chest and a dented old travelling trunk was a crystal ball that looked as out of place in the attic as John. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, just like the rest of the things in the attic. But John could make out that it was not a clear crystal ball. It was filled with grey smoke, as if it were a prop from some fortune teller’s gig. He found a rag on the broken chest and dusted the crystal ball as best as he could. He paused for a moment, not knowing what to do._

_“Go on, pick it up!” the voice coaxed him on, not making any attempt to hide its joy and excitement any more._

_John obeyed the voice and picked the crystal up. As soon as he touched the ball, a great gust of wind started to blow from all across the room towards a point in front of John. John looked up, shielding his eyes from the dust billowing up around him. He saw an image, as if being projected from the crystal in his hands. It seemed to him like a corridor, or a passageway, which opened up into a room. The room had silvery metallic walls. There was a group of men standing in a semicircle around the door that opened into the room._

_At the centre of the semicircle, standing near the opening of the corridor, were two men. One of them was taller and of a leaner build than the other. The shorter man, however, chilled John to the bones. He had obsidian eyes that seemed deader than Death itself. And if the eyes were not cold enough already, he was smiling the cold smile that spoke of a confidence of a battle-hardened yet war-hungry general leading his troops into a war that seemed but a mere formality to him. The shorter man whispered something to the taller man standing beside him and the two stepped into the passageway._

_John’s body began to shake violently, as if he was caught in a massive earthquake mysteriously localised to his body. He found it difficult to hold on to the crystal, but for some reason he held on to it desperately. It was as if John knew that holding on to the crystal was the only way to guarantee his life’s safety and continued existence. However, soon the strain of the vibrations got too much and John let go, trying to brush the remnants of dust off his hands as he ran, ran like he had never run before._

 

***

 

Mycroft walked into his study, picked up the book and closed his eyes. The study expanded and he kept the book down. He was thinking about many things and nothing in particular. He felt relieved and, to an extent, rather happy at having told Sherlock his little secret. At the same time there was the pressure of managing so many different worlds. They seemed to be bursting apart at the seams with all the incidents of rogue behaviour. Anthea and her team were trying their best but were obviously failing. Mycroft was trying to work out what was going on and how he could stop it.

He felt relaxed knowing that at least the task of finding John Watson was in efficient and capable hands.

He was also dealing with many political and diplomatic issues related to this world. He had put in a lot of effort into creating this world for his brother and his mother and he was not going to let all that go to waste, even though it no longer served its purpose of being a safe haven for Mycroft’s family.

Amidst all these conflicting feelings was a nagging sense of dread. He remembered his father’s prophecy about him and his brother. He pushed those thoughts away from his head. “There is such a lot of rogue behaviour going on around all these worlds,” he reasoned to himself silently, “Who is to say Sherlock will not break away from his prophecy?”

All his ruminations were abruptly interrupted when the door leading up to the attic opened.

 

***

 

Moriarty, Moran, Adler and Drake stepped into what appeared to be a dusty attic room in presumably Mycroft Holmes’ house.

“Ah! All three of you made it,” Moriarty remarked. “I must say, I didn’t think all of you would make it through the portal. At least not as quickly as you did.”

“All right then. Let’s get started. We need to focus all our mental powers by tapping into our Animus crystals. We must focus the energy we otherwise use to See, Clear minds or Storm and Suppress emotions onto this crystal,” Moriarty explained, gesturing towards a clear crystal sitting between a dented travel trunk and a broken chest that looked exactly similar to the one they had just mentally tapped into in their palace, back in their world. “Focus all our energy, lady and gentlemen, on expanding the field within the crystal into a large enough area for a normal human figure to fit in. Just focus on getting your mental fingers in the rip and pry it apart.”

This proved easier said than done, of course. He felt all their minds’ touch on the gap in the fabric of reality. It took all his effort - and he could sense that the others were straining just as much as him, if not more - to get the rip to expand even a little bit. He felt like he had aged a million years in a single short moment. But he still pressed on. He knew that the only reason the others had not caved in yet was because they saw their Lord press onwards despite such terrible odds.

The rip almost refused to budge, initially. But then, after almost 5 to 10 minutes of unrelenting effort, it slowly but surely began to grow larger. Moriarty grew quite relieved and ecstatic upon seeing his efforts bear fruit. He and Moran had never quite been able to ensure that their troops could be able to travel through the portal unharmed. After all, numbers would decide the victor in this battle.

As soon as the portal was big enough for a human figure to comfortably walk through, he saw one of his troop leader, Slahi, walk across the now physical portal into this world. After a few minutes, close to 27 men and women had gathered around him. The portal took surprisingly little effort to be kept open, as compared to actually opening it from its initial size. He ordered 2 of his Cristveggens to stand guard and keep the portal open in case they needed to call for reinforcements. Once all the necessary arrangements were made, Moriarty and his vanguard of 25 of his best soldiers made their way to meet Mycroft Holmes and claim this world in Moriarty’s name once and for all.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Any second now, he thought he would wake up and the running would stop. His legs were hurting but he was more appalled by the fact that he had legs, tangible and right under him, bearing his weight and pushing him forward, the hard ground soft and lush under his feet. He could hear the scenery sigh and rush past him but he couldn’t bring himself to look, lest it suck him in. John was running like he had never run before, heart thudding in his throat and ears ringing from the sounds of his own stuttering breath.

He reached out to the door knob and he knew that if he opened it, this would be over – his nightmare, dream – he still hadn’t found a word good enough to explain it. He turned it and leapt out, almost flying into the familiar fresh air that he was sure would await him. Instead, his feet found no ground to land on and he went downwards, down and down at breakneck pace, all sense fading until he was sure that he was going to die like this.

He landed quite smoothly, though; his body halting to a slow stop right before he hit the white sands, and he almost sank in their warmth and quiet comfort. His heart was speeding up and he was surprised that even after all this, it was still working. As he got up and quietly brushed the sand off his trousers, looking around, he found the place to be entirely new to him. He had absolutely not been here before, in dreams or otherwise. Instinctively, he thought about his gun lying safely in the second drawer of the side table and the moment this thought entered his mind, he felt something fall into his pocket with a resounding thump. He reached in, eyes still scanning the completely empty surroundings, and there it was, cold as his feet, his faithful gun. He did not know what was happening and what to make of the menacing quiet around him, but the presence of the gun in his hands was comfort enough to make him go forward.

He had only taken a few steps, realising that he was not wearing any shoes and the sand tickled his feet in a pleasant manner, when the ground began to shake, slowly at first but harder later. He tightened his grip on the gun, still looking around but it was futile, there was no place to hide – for him or anyone else. The farther his eyes went, the more he realised that there was nothing but just blissful and ivory white sands stretched around him. Where would he hide – in the sand?

No sooner had he thought of this, he noticed small whirlpools beginning to form in the sand, like someone had pulled the wire off the plug in the ground and the sand was going in. Beautiful little formations began making whizzing noises around him and for no reason but his gut instinct, he pointed his gun at the one closest to him.

A clear glass dome began to surface up, the white sand slipping off its top and evaporating, like the dome was made from the very sand John was walking on. Something told him that he should shoot it but something else - his curiosity – wanted him to wait, to see how much bigger the dome would grow. After it reached the diameter of a person’s head, the glass formation started showing signs of being a hollow sphere, and later, an oval. No, it was a perfect head and that wasn’t it; soon popped out the neck, then the shoulders, the arms, chest and legs following quickly enough.

It looked just like a human statue to John who, by now, was in shock and couldn’t move. The sun went right through the glass man who looked frozen in time itself as the other small sand whirlpools in the ground had stopped too, their eyes directed to the human sized statue in their midst. John took a few steps back, not wanting to be here any longer. He felt his heart racing again, and before it happened, he knew it would.

The glass formation, which had been a mere statue so far, moved its head and looked straight at John with its hollow eyes. Before John even had time to be shocked, it’s glass legs dug themselves out of the white sands and moved towards him, soundless and soft.

“Stop right there, I’m armed.” John shouted, the sand suddenly heating up and burning his bare feet. The figure made no motion of having heard him.

“I have a gun and I will shoot you if you don’t stop.” A second or two was all John could afford to lease out at that moment and so, he fired the shot, hand touching the trigger like a pianist’s fingers caressing the keys. But he heard no fire, no screaming of the bullet as it pierced through the air but when he looked at the glass figure, right at the centre of its head was a hole and sand poured out of it. The moment it sank to the ground, the glass melting into clear white sand, the ground shook again and with a faint sizzle, John looked down and saw himself evaporate away from the scene, feet first.

 

***

 

He woke up on grass smelling of summers and an air drizzled with the sweet aroma of his mother’s butter pecan pie. His bones creaked as he moved and his head was a little heavy like he had slept for hours and had forgotten what waking up was all about. He saw the house from his childhood, unkempt hedges and flower pots lining the edges of the porch, one of the broken swings. He also saw his mother on the kitchen window, wiping her hands on the apron. He waited for her to tuck the stray strand of hair behind her ear after that, and she did, making John smile.

As he moved around, he saw Harry. Her hair was cut short, jagged around the ends because she had done it herself in a fit of rage. He wanted to talk to her, maybe speak a few words of comfort. Back when they were kids, John had never had a chance to have a chat with his sister. They just didn’t share that kind of bond that siblings have, the way they fight and later, forget their grudges and play catch. That was always absent between them. Maybe, it was because they were so different from each other. However, when he saw her coming out of the tool shed with a baseball bat, the moment made itself clearer to him.

He had tried to bury it deep in the crevices of his mind but he had never been successful at that. It was his 12th birthday.

Harry smiled at him, the baseball bat hidden behind her and John instantly froze, looking around to confirm that she was indeed talking to him. She could see him. Yes, she was walking right towards him, the wind brushing their blonde hair together. That should have been the first clue for John but all the nostalgia had diverted his attention.

“Hi, I’m Harry,” she smiled and it made John’s blood boil because he knew where she had just come from. The very fact that she could be so casual about it made him want to slap her but he couldn’t. He couldn’t then and he couldn’t now.  
  
“Hello. Is your brother around?” He said, keeping his tone as calm as he could.

It was then that she showed a slight hint of fear, eyes scanning him in an all too familiar way.  
“In the shed. I think he fell down and hurt himself,” she lied blatantly.

John nodded and made his way to the shed, going for the spot right under the stairs where he knew he’d find his younger self. And there he was, a bit small for his age, clutching his arm and quietly sniffling.

“Hey, are you okay?” John didn’t want to scare the boy.  
  
“Who are you?” The kid looked extremely afraid, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.  
  
“It’s okay. I’m a- friend. Do you need some help with that arm, here let me do it. I’m a doctor.” He whispered, asking him for the medical kit he knew the kid would have behind him.  
  
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” the kid whispered, taking a deep breath and visibly steeling himself.

He still offered the kit to John and let him hold his arm. As John worked to check the area that was turning blue quickly, he talked to the kid, not knowing or remembering what he’d wanted to hear back then.

“You should talk to someone about it,” he said, voice quiet.  
  
“I did. But my parents just laughed at me because…” something stopped him, maybe the memory of his father laughing boorishly and taking it as a joke. Or perhaps, Harry’s threatening gaze at him.  
  
“Because you’re a guy and how can a girl possibly be hurting you? No, that’s not how it is, John.” John managed. He remembered his own conflicts when this had happened. It had happened quite a lot of times before but this one had been the worst of them all, because this time, Harry was truly angry at him, angry for breaking their little secret and involving their parents. He had grown tired of making excuses for every bruise on his body, little cuts made on his arms when he woke up, random punches, a broken nose once. His parents had drunk in his excuses about football practice but John was tired of lying, of protecting someone who showed no signs of changing at all.

“You must have some friends or someone at school? A teacher, perhaps, could help,” John offered, finally rolling down the sleeves of a familiar full sleeved orange shirt, a gift from his aunt. He had burnt that shirt along with a lot of other clothes when he had finally managed to leave this house and Harry.

“Hmm, I don’t know. It’s just…”  
“Embarrassing?” John finished the statement for him, nodding. “It shouldn’t be, kid. There is nothing wrong with asking for help. And you know that you need it. Talk to Mr Wilson, yes? You like him, don’t you? He’ll be able to help, I’m sure.”

The younger John looked up at that, suddenly hopeful.

“You’re not my parents’ friend, are you?” He said, finally making to get up.  
“I never said that. I said I was a friend. Your friend,” John smiled at him, ruffling his hair and deciding to leave.

On his way out, he saw Harry, sitting on the one working swing and looking at them from a distance. As the younger John went back inside the house, John approached little Harry, deciding that he needed to have a word with her, after all.

“Hello, again,” she said, but there was no smile on her face. She was smart and had probably worked out that John knew what she had been doing.  
  
“I was just leaving. Before that, though, I want to tell you a story. It’s the story of my sister. Do you want to hear it?”  
“Not really, no.” She was still looking straight at him, almost challenging him.  
  
“Well, sadly, you have to or I’m going to walk straight inside your house and tell your parents about everything you have been up to. I bet they are going to give a little more weight to John’s allegations when they come from a grown up.” At this, she looked confounded and John could practically hear her mind working out the scenario.

“So, where was I? Yes, you remind me of my own sister. She ruined her life and even when she grew up, her anger and her bullying never really left her. Everyone that she had loved and had been friends with left her in the end. Now, she stays alone, drinking and wasting her life away. But you know what, she is still better than you because no matter what she did in the past, she realised her mistakes soon enough and decided to work on them, instead of feeling proud about her pathetic and cowardly behaviour. She made amends, apologised to the people she had hurt and started her life afresh. You, on the other hand, will never have the courage to do that if you continue being what you are. And let me tell you, when you are alone with no one there with you, you would only have yourself to blame.”

Leaving her with his words and his anger, John got up and took a deep breath as he started walking. He didn’t know if he had changed anything at all, if his words had meant anything to John or Harry but he knew that he had done all he could. Maybe, this was what this experience was all about.

The moment he had reached the conclusion, he heard the familiar sizzling again and looked down at his feet, watching himself disappear into wisps of vapour.

 

***

 

John returned to the white sands again, somewhat satisfied with the way things had gone so far. He had almost forgotten about events before that but when he saw the glass figure cooking on the ground, a halo of white around the charred melting bits, he was brought back to reality; or as close to reality as one could get in the present circumstances.

Soon, the swirling started again. Random points behind the fallen figure moved and the whirlpools filled the air with soundless mayhem, John’s hands closing around his gun quickly and assuredly. This time, however, he saw two domes emerge. They were both glass first but as John looked at them, trying to guess where they would lead him, they started changing colours, almost mirroring his thoughts. One was a brilliant orange, almost neon under the sun and the other was a cool blue, weaving in with the white sands around it. The blue made John feel secure and yet, it filled him with unexplained grief. The orange made him feel nothing at all, it felt as empty as the shattered panes close to his feet.

When the figures emerged, John expected one of them to approach him but they both did, in tandem, the sand slithering off their feet and disappearing. John realised that he might have to shoot both of them, and as soon as the thought entered his mind, the figures started moving quickly, arms swishing about. Taking one quick look at the still toasting remnants of the first figure on the ground, John aimed a shot at the blue one, hitting it between the eyes. As he saw the familiar hole form in the middle of the head, perfectly round and unreal, he turned towards the orange figure and that’s when the sizzling sound began again, leaving John shocked because the figure kept moving towards him until the moment his eyes wisped out.

 

***

 

John had guessed wrong when he assumed that he would be at a new place this time. He woke up on the same grass but the smell of childhood summers and pies was absent, the hedges browning under the sun and one side of the house in slight decay. However, those weren’t the things that caught John’s attention, it was the line of cars outside their house, parked haphazardly on the street and almost blocking the road. They must have been at least 20 of them there, mostly black, sans people.

When John looked up at the house, he could almost feel the buzz and the collective words of so many people shaking the house’s bricks. Before he could decide what his purpose was, he saw a movement on the top window. It was him, the same younger self he had met a few hours (or was it days?) ago. The kid motioned him to wait outside, running down and joining him in a few minutes.

He looked the same as ever but if possible, slighter. There were bags under his eyes and he had been crying but John couldn’t see any apparent bruises on his person. He heaved a sigh of relief but something needled at him, something obvious he was missing. John also had a feeling that he didn’t want to be seen here. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to be intangible again.

They moved towards their familiar shed, witness to endless tears.

“What’s going on? And also, how old are you?” John removed the little stack of books lying under the stairs to a side and retrieved the small water bottle, waiting for an answer from his younger self.

“Turned 12 a few months ago, when we met for the first time,” younger John replied. He rubbed his face, stifling a yawn.

“You look tired. Haven’t you been getting enough sleep?”  
“Not really, with the funeral and everything, life has been difficult. But I’ve been expecting to see you for some time now-”  
“What funeral?”

The kid shot him a quizzical look that barely hid the sadness in his eyes.

“Harry’s… she di- killed herself. Didn’t you know?”

The words almost hit him across the face, more painful than a slap and John fisted his hands inside his pocket, suddenly needing to hold on to something, anything, to make sense. He sat down on the floor with a thump, mind refusing to work and the words still humming in his ears.

_Harry killed herself!!_

But that wasn’t possible. Harry couldn’t- oh God.

“Why- what happened?” he managed, throat refusing to work.

His younger self took the bottle lying between them, taking a sip. He looked like he was steeling himself to reveal something to John.

“I- I spoke to Mr Wilson, like you suggested and it worked. I went to him the very next day because I thought… well, I knew I would need some proof and I already had that bruise on my arm.” He shrugged, continuing.

“He believed me. He said he always suspected that the excuses I gave for turning up in battered conditions were a bit unbelievable to him but he assumed it was my parents. And that I was trying to protect them.”

“So, what happened after that? How did… _this_ happen?” John asked, needing a confirmation for his fears.

“After that, he informed my parents who, at first, didn’t believe that I would dare to take my made up stories to a teacher. But later, when Mr Wilson told them about everything I had revealed to him, they had no option but to believe. Harry was given strict warnings, both from my teacher and my parents that she would be sent to a boarding school for wayward kids if she didn’t mend her ways.”

“Did she change after that? Did she stop?” John asked, already knowing the answer. Somehow, he wanted it to be someone else’s fault and not his. He would take any little consolation that was thrown at him at that moment.

“Yes, a change came over her,” the younger John said. “She even said that she wanted us to be friends, and was sorry about everything she had done. At first, I didn’t believe her because…”  
“She’s said the same things before. Back when it first started,” John finished his sentence, watching his younger self nod in agreement.

“Yes, but this time, it was for real. At least, I think it was. But, when she went back to school, after a few weeks of suspension, no one would speak to her. The teachers bullied her relentlessly as punishment for the things she had done. She had no friends to talk to, just me. Our parents refused to speak to her, except if they needed her to do something. She would sit in her room all day, bunk school and no one cared. We got no complaints from school about her missing classes. My mother didn’t ever ask why she was at home and not at school, and she never gave any explanations.” He stopped to rub his face, taking another sip.

“We found this note a few days ago, right after I found her in her room, lying unconscious and clutching an empty bottle of sleeping pills.” He showed the note to John,

_Dear John,_

_I know I’m a bad person and after everything that I have done I don’t have a right to complain. I probably deserve it all. But I can’t take it anymore. I feel so alone. No one loves me, not mum, my friends. Everyone hates me and would probably be glad that I left their life. You, though… I know you. I just want you to feel safe again and I don’t think you can do that while I’m around. I would always remind you of horrible times. Again, I’m so sorry for everything. Take care of yourself._

_Love,  
Harry_

The words from the note hung between both of them, simmering in their collective guilt. John wanted to say something that would feel appropriate, something that would assuage both their consciences but he just couldn’t.

The younger John had begun to cry now, not loudly, but tears gently fell down his cheeks and John realised that he was crying too. Neither of them made any move to brush their tears off or to console each other. It was too late for that.

“I have to go,” John whispered, his voice raspy.  
“Can’t you stay a bit longer?”  
“No, I really must go now. I’m so sorry, John. I’m so terribly sorry,” saying which John ran out of the shed, his body disappearing, but he continued running until his legs went away as well. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really proud of these couple of chapters, yo


	14. Chapter 14

He opened the door, knowing it would be unlocked if his brother was in the room. The door opened smoothly and he strode in confidently. He saw his brother sitting behind a table on a large chair, his head held in his hands, poring over some papers. The door he had opened hit the wall with a soft bang, causing his brother to look up.

“Hello, dear brother.” He was enjoying this bit more than he had imagined.

Mycroft Holmes, God of this world, paled visibly upon clapping his eyes on his long-lost brother and second-in-command. He did not say anything for almost 5 seconds. Moriarty began looking around the place, sizing it up and locating metal objects to use in the discussion that was to follow, knowing full and well that it would get rather heated. He could not help but be impressed by the books lining the walls. Moriarty was always a strong admirer of Mycroft’s taste in books.

“So,” he continued after his calculations were done, “Mycroft, we meet again. Did you miss me, brother? I certainly missed you. How long has it been now, a few millennia, am I correct?”

Moriarty had known this God back when he was a man, eager to please his father like any mortal human child would. He knew how he thought and what he could and could not do in a given situation. He knew that Mycroft liked to feign shock or surprise in certain situations so that he would gain a crucial tactical advantage. Moriarty also knew that maybe Mycroft, the God, was a better adversary than Mycroft, the man, but the slightly parted lips and wide eyes that met his own calm and relaxed countenance were not an act. However, Mycroft was recovering quickly.

“Yes, James, two or three, I lost count. I can call you James, can I not?” Mycroft asked, his sense of calmness returning.

“Call me whatever you like, brother. In some time, it would cease to matter.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this. “Is that a threat, James? Please sit down, would you like some tea?”

Moriarty smiled, this was going to be quite easy. “Yes, of course. I and my friends here simply popped in through the inter-dimensional portal we spent close to two millennia working on to have a cup of tea and biscuits,” Moriarty said, gesturing at the men and women lined up behind him.

He felt his brother’s mind touch his own. Did Mycroft really expect to influence him in any way? He attacked at his brother’s mental touch with ferocity and quickness. He saw Mycroft cringe ever so slightly at that.

“Come, come, Mycroft,” Moriarty said, smiling, “What did you hope to achieve with that? Your mental shenanigans used to be a thing of awe to me, but it’s been three thousand years now. Did you really think I would be overwhelmed by them?”

Mycroft simply stared back at Moriarty, his eyes calmer than ever. Moriarty continued, “So, like I was saying - inter-dimensional portal. We built it, me and my team here. Well I say ‘built’, but it was more close to discovering a possible starting point, teasing out the way to properly use it, and then actually putting the plan into action.”

Mycroft nodded at this. He was lost in thought for a little while. That little act a few seconds ago had been an attempt to gauge the strength of Moriarty’s mental resistance and Mycroft would be lying if he said that he expected anything less. He waited for Moriarty to continue.

 “I’m a bit surprised you did not think of it, though. I mean when I saw the legends describing the Animo Crystallum brought to my attention by my trusted lieutenant here,” Moriarty gestured towards Moran, who came up to his side, “I thought you would be well ahead of me on this one.”

“What are you talking about? The only communicator I know of is …” Mycroft trailed off, a look of sudden comprehension dawning upon his face.

“Yes, you’re on the right track there, I think. The only Animo Crystallum you know of is with you. And might I take the liberty to say that you have guarded it quite closely. The thing is, though, that when additional dimensions are created in the vicinity of an Animo Crystallum, the device replicates itself. I figured it would do that since an event big enough to cause a dimensional rupture would definitely create a tricky area that would need to be observed, at least, if not contacted.

“So when I saw the legends and mythologies across the various religions and cultures across my world, I figured that the Animo Crystallum I had seen our Father use to try and contact his friends from time to time would have a copy in my world. I searched far and wide for it and finally, a few months ago, my team found it in the Easter Islands.” He gave an appreciative nod toward Moran.

“I guess when it replicates, it does not replicate in the same location as it was. Anyway, I knew that to operate an Animo Crystallum, one would need a willing participant from the other side. I needed someone to want to get in touch with my world from this world. And it needed to be someone who had a mind open enough for me to easily operate on. I considered using one of my own men, but you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find an Eisentreib or a Cristveggen with a hunger to explore. Take you, for example. After all these years of playing with your Animus, you have lost all joy and have no memory whatsoever of the feeling you had when you successfully used it for the first time. Animus can be a capricious weapon to wield, it is full of surprises and yet, you seem to have grown tired of it. I can see it in your eyes. What can I say, perhaps, the God is as bored as the men he created.”

“So,” interjected Mycroft, “this is where John comes in, is it? He was your ‘contact’ in my world. He was the one person in your world curious enough for you to manipulate and send into my world.”

Moriarty shrugged. “We hardly knew that he was the only person who could do it. We picked him up at random, thinking that only a damaged and vulnerable mind was needed. We were in luck, however, because when my trusted aide here, Sebastian Moran, tinkered around with his mind, he found a world there. A world so close to yours, that I knew if anyone could do this task and succeed, it would be him.” He smiled as Mycroft made the link. “His conscience was a small roadblock that was effectively dealt with. We created the ideal mind for this task. I suspected that sooner or later my contact would run into your Cristveggen henchmen and so, I figured that the best mental defence I could give my contact would be simply no defence.” He seemed to swell up at the mere memory of his own genius idea.

“I devised a method to create a pseudo-psyche or quasi-mind or whatever else you want to call it. It would seem like a normal, undefended mind to the touch of any Cristveggen. They would never guess that something was amiss.”

Mycroft straightened up at this. “Oh, so that is why I could not bend him to my will,” he sounded awed.

Moriarty looked at his brother, tearing his gaze away from the blue book sitting on the desk. “Yes, you felt a normal mind, I suppose. Pain centre, fear centre, breath centre, thought centres. The full works. Clever, isn’t it?”

Mycroft seemed to momentarily forget what was going on. The scientist and experimenter inside him seemed to overpower all other things. He looked at Moriarty with awe and respect. Creating a replica of a functional human mind was something that Mycroft could only dream of doing, with his ethical and moral restraints. Moriarty had no such shackles.

“And the portal? Your Cristveggens and Eisentreibs managed to cross it on their own and get to this side? That is impressive, indeed.” Mycroft glanced at the team standing behind Moriarty and looked far from impressed; some discomfort was beginning to show in his eyes, though he hid it well.

“Oh, no, no, Mycroft. As you may have worked out, the portal is a very dangerous thing. It would take one deep inside one’s own mind out of where one has to fight one’s own way back out. If the person could manage to survive the mental battle against the portal, which is a rip in time itself, they could travel to wherever they desired, at whatever point in time they sought. Only I and three of my best Cristveggen could manage to do so and we had to come up with a way for the rest of my troops to travel through the portal into your world, unharmed.” Moriarty’s eyes sparkled, watching comprehension dawn in Mycroft’s eyes.

“So, you came back and pried it open with your minds, letting others join you. And John Watson? What about him?” Mycroft asked, surprised at the way his voice shook.

“I’d be surprised if you ever get to speak to John Watson again, brother. Cristveggens with years of training and control barely manage to elude the distortions of the portal. Most die and those that survive go mad. This is why I couldn’t have any of my men even attempt it. It was too huge a risk but well, John Watson was disposable. I would shake his hand if I met him, though. He did a wonderful job. The best spy is someone who doesn’t know which side he is working for and that is exactly what John Watson has been. His mind was our bridge, the only bridge from me to you, brother, and he opened it for us, bit by bit, until there was space enough for all of us to enter.” Moriarty seemed to be rocking on the balls of his feet, rubbing his hands together.

For a second, in all his anger and confusion, Mycroft saw something of his father in the God sitting in front of him. He had all the curiosity and brilliance that a great God made. However, he had none of the humility or kindness which had been the beacons of his father’s character. Oh how Mycroft had hated his father for those qualities and how he missed them now. Even in all this confusion, Mycroft couldn’t help but feel the weight of guilt on his heart. It had been he who helped open John’s mind just a bit more, for his own curiosity. Because he just couldn’t resist seeing how damaged John was.

 “As you would have gathered by now,” Moriarty said, his voice breaking the monologue in Mycroft’s head, “I’m here to take back what, by right of sheer force, is mine. I want to reunite our worlds, Mycroft. The Universe is splitting apart in both my dimension as well as yours. The only thing holding it together is our will. We are meant to be so much more than simply men who hold things together.”

Mycroft began, “James- Jim, this is not how Father saw-” Moriarty was not in the mood for patronising speeches. He simply plonked himself back into his chair, a signal for Moran to stand behind it firmly. Once Moran was in place, Moriarty tapped into the Lucrum cufflinks he was wearing. Instantly, every piece of metal shone brightly, as if lit by a hot flame from within. He selected to focus his attention on the Lucrum buttons on Mycroft’s vest. He Willed his force against it. The effect was analogous to a physical push. However, it was not limited by the amount of force his muscles could produce. Instead, the only driving force for pushes and pulls fuelled by the Will was the person’s own weight. Since Moriarty was lighter than Mycroft, he used the weight of the chair on which he was sitting and Moran backing it up to ensure that the combined force was enough to push Mycroft away.

The result was that Mycroft soared in an arc through the air and began to hurtle towards the window behind him. However, Moriarty suddenly felt his Willed push become steadily weaker. Since he was not letting go of the force, he realised that Mycroft was either pushing against the metal window frame behind him or pulling on the metal door knob and lock mechanism on the door. Although the combined weight pushing on Mycroft was too much for his own Willed push or pull to make a significant difference, Moriarty steadied his push by pushing a part of his weight against the door knob. The added weight of the doorframe was enough to send Mycroft hurtling out of the window onto the street below.

Moriarty turned around to order the people who were with him to follow him into battle.

Moving across the room and using his Willed pushes and pulls to deftly open the latch of the door, Moriarty ordered his people, “Secure the house!”

Moriarty used his Lucrum-assisted pushes and pulls to unlock the locked doors. Bursting through the doors of the bedrooms and kitchen, Moriarty and the soldiers following him made quick work of the stewards and maids working in there.

Moriarty did not want to take any chances with anyone in the employment of his brother. He did not know how many or who amongst these people were Eisentreibs or Cristveggens. He used deft mental touches to push and pull heavy metal objects to finish off his prey. Soon, the whole house was littered with corpses. Few things gave him more satisfaction than seeing a sight of complete annihilation like this one.

“All right, troops,” Moriarty shouted over the voice of the last maid who was dying as a knife Willed by one of his Eisentreibs slowly pushed itself inside her chest towards her heart. “This was the easy bit, as I’m sure you would have guessed. Now we are going to step outside and finish off the defenders of this place and get the rest of our troops through.”

His followers yelled a cry of jubilation at this. Moriarty smiled, pleased at the enthusiasm. He would lose quite a few troops in this battle but if he could keep them motivated enough, maybe they could hold off Mycroft’s defenders for enough time to get reinforcements and finish off this war once and for all.

“Hold this position and secure the street. Give no quarter, they won’t be coming in underprepared,” Moriarty warned.

 

***

 

Mycroft landed heavily on the street outside. He did manage to break his fall by grabbing one of the Lucrum buttons on his vest and trying to reduce the speed of his fall by pulling against the metal grill on the window through which he fell. But that was too little, and he was falling too fast and hard to really make any difference. He feared he had broken some bones. He gingerly got up and tested his legs and his back. They seemed sore but undamaged.

He quickly made his way to St. Luke’s Garden behind the house and snuck away behind the trees. He fished out his mobile phone from his jacket pocket, luckily it was not broken.

“Anthea,” Mycroft whispered urgently, “Where are you?”

“At the office, my Lord,” she replied curtly. She seemed to be busy with something.

“Gather as many of our people as you can and get here quickly,” Mycroft said, keeping his voice low lest anyone hear him. “It’s urgent. We are in grave danger. I know why all those disturbances have been occurring in our worlds. A great battle is about to commence which will decide the fate of our world. Fly here, quickly.”

He cut the call. He used his mental link with Anthea to get a small message across. Quickly, we don’t have any time at all. He could not use it for extended communications when his mind was as agitated as it was right now. He waited for Anthea and his forces to arrive. After a few minutes he could make out sounds of people screaming in terror from inside the house. “Those would be the maids and stewards,” he thought to himself. He felt utterly helpless. “Those men and women are dying in shock and fear simply because they happened to be in my house at this time. What is the point of all these powers if I can’t even protect people standing right next to me?” Mycroft thought, his frustration almost causing him to jump out of his protected place in the trees and in the line of sight of the attackers.

St. Luke’s Garden, behind the trees near the French doors. He sent the message to Anthea, in case she and her team accidentally landed up in the midst of Moriarty’s band of assailants.

He spent the next few moments wondering what he could do to hold off close to the 25 men who came storming into his world with Moriarty, if they chanced upon him before help arrived. This was clearly his vanguard. Mycroft estimated that Moriarty would have at least 200 to 250 men under his control in his world. He would be hard pressed in trying to hold off all those men. If he knew Moriarty any bit, he knew that Moriarty would attack this world with all his force, trying to wipe out Mycroft. Even if he was unsuccessful at it, Mycroft would be forced to run off into some other world, away from his centre of power. It would take him some time to get all his troops into this world to fight off Moriarty’s army. The way he saw it, if he lost this world, fighting his way back into this war was nigh on impossible.

Just then, he looked up at the sky and saw 10 dots flying through the air making their way towards him. After some time the dots dipped behind the buildings in front of him. In a few seconds, he saw 10 men and women zipping towards him, floating a few feet above ground. They were each carrying 1 more person on their back. His Eisentreibs, under Hoid’s command, could use the metal in this world to keep themselves floating in the air and, in emergency situations just like this one, fly to wherever they were needed.

“I figured it was better to keep low for the last mile or so,” Hoid huffed as Anthea leaped off his back and made her way to where Mycroft stood. “In case they saw us.”

“Good thinking,” Mycroft said. Soon, he was surrounded by 20 of his best Eisentreibs and Cristveggens. He wasted no time in explaining his situation.

“I have gathered you here on quite a short notice, I understand,” Mycroft explained quickly, “But the situation is such. As Anthea would have explained to you, we are under attack. It is not a normal human threat, where we might face weapons used in normal battlefields. Our enemies today are Cristveggens and Eisentreibs of tremendous skill and ruthlessness.”

“An uprising, my Lord?” Hoid asked, alarmed.

“Of sorts. My brother has come back from across the universe to claim from me what is rightfully mine,” Mycroft replied. “I know that we have never really trained for such a situation, but keep calm and approach it as you would a normal battle or war in your worlds. Hoid, you know battle tactics the best. Please tell us how we should go about with this battle.”

“Can you tell me the make-up of the opposing force, my Lord?” Hoid asked, his mind clearly whirring away.

“Well, I don’t really know a lot about them myself,” Mycroft confessed. “But from the looks of it, they are just the vanguard of a possibly larger force. They are a group of twenty five people in total, made up of a mixture of Eisentreibs and Cristveggens. Although I’m not completely sure of it, I think it would be safe to assume that there are more Eisentreibs in their group than Cristveggens.”

Hoid was thinking for a few seconds. Then he urgently whispered, “That might just prove to be the tipping point. If your guess is correct, my Lord, and this is indeed the vanguard of the army, then not only is the rest of the army on its way as we speak, but these are probably the best soldiers they have. However, we can rout them in their tracks even if we are slightly outnumbered and maybe even out-skilled.

“We must attack them in one go. The street is too narrow for there to be any advanced movement. So, we will form a wall and charge at them. Since they have more Eisentreibs than Cristveggens, our Cristveggen warriors, who outnumber our Eisentreib fighters, can use their skills. Am I right in assuming that although you can exert just as much force and create an almost identical effect on two targets placed at different distances from you, Cristveggens find it harder and more taxing to do so on targets farther away than those closer to them?” Hoid asked Anthea. She simply nodded.

“All right then, you will be like our low-ranged units. You will be at the front, maximising your damaging potential by being as close to the enemy as possible. We, the Eisentreibs, will provide you protection. We will be like mid-ranged units and armour, simultaneously. Our job would be to deflect off any projectiles their Eisentreibs hurl at you. Don’t worry about any metal objects that come flying your way. My men are very well trained. We have fought and survived many a bloody battle, saving quite a few lives in the process.

“Your task, my Lord, will be to protect us from their Cristveggens’ mental attacks. I think you would be best suited for this task by being somewhere between our ranks. Keep us protected, my Lord, or else our Cristveggens will be impaled on metal spikes,” Hoid laughed lightly at that, although no one except his Eisentreibs shared his hilarity.

“Men and women, stick to your tasks. A prolonged battle will not be of any advantage to us. Our reinforcements, if they ever arrive at all, would probably arrive hours after we need them to. Lady Anthea, I’m sure you have informed all our troops stationed in all the different worlds to make their way here?” Hoid asked Anthea. She nodded curtly. He continued, “Their reinforcements might just be a few minutes away. Let’s hope that they don’t have any messengers inside the building. Cristveggens, and my Lord you as well, as soon as we enter the street, keep an eye out for anyone who might look like they are messengers, posted close to the door.”

All the people gathered there seemed to agree with what Hoid had just said. They grimly nodded at each other and began to briskly walk, almost march, towards the street. What followed was sheer carnage, the likes of which Mycroft had not seen in nearly three thousand years.

As soon as they entered the street, Anthea leading the charge of the Cristveggens, Mycroft saw two men stationed right at the door. “Door, quickly,” he urgently called out to Anthea. Mycroft reached over their defences and Suppressed their feeling of defending themselves. Although it was a highly unnatural state of mind, Mycroft only needed to keep his hold over them for a few milliseconds. As soon as he had lowered their mental defences, he felt Anthea swoop in on their psyche and kill them. As he felt their minds dissolve around his mental touch, he found himself wondering about how Anthea had killed them. He was almost completely lost in these thoughts for a moment when he was suddenly jerked back into reality when a metal bar went whizzing over his head.

 

“Sorry about that back there,” one of Hoid’s Eisentreibs shouted without turning back, “that was a fast one.”

Mycroft immediately focussed all his attention on the battle ensuing around him. He reached out and spread his mental touch like a protective blanket over all of his Eisentreibs. Although all Eisentreibs were inherently much more difficult to mentally attack than normal humans, because they could not actively defend themselves, pounding on their defences would inevitably weaken them.

Over the years, people experimenting with Cristveggen gifts managed to incorporate them quite effectively in war. Memory Cleaners could kill the way Anthea killed her victims and Emotional Manipulators could significantly change people’s emotions and thoughts to make them either kills themselves or, more preferably, kill a bunch of people from their own army, forcing the army to kill them. But usually their role was more of a defensive one, much like Mycroft’s role right now. They were supposed to protect a platoon or a larger group of soldiers from the mental attacks of enemy Cristveggen attackers.

Mycroft successfully parried off attack after attack from Moriarty’s Cristveggens. His own Cristveggen were desperately launching attacks against the mental defences mounted by the enemy around their Eisentreibs. Their Eisentreibs in turn viciously attacked Mycroft’s Cristveggens, forming the front two lines, using almost anything they could grasp and throw at them. Mycroft’s own Eisentreibs deflected these attacks, assuming a primarily defensive role. However, soon a small group of Eisentreibs, acting on Hoid’s orders, began to organise minor attacks on the enemy lines.

Initially, they began throwing back the dust bins, ripped out fences, sign posts and window frames and small sharp household items that were being hurled in the direction of their own Cristveggen. Then they began to up the ante of the attack by ripping out sign posts and fences for themselves and throwing them at the enemy lines. In a matter of a few minutes, the scene began to get gruesome.

Mycroft could feel the Cristveggens in both the armies beginning to panic. They began to feel threatened because of their complete vulnerability in case one of their Eisentreibs failed them. Their attacks grew increasingly desperate. Somewhere along his own line, he could feel someone panicking. He touched the Cristveggen’s mind and heard him scream to himself over the din of metal clanging all around him, “They’ll win! Their reinforcements will pour out of that door any moment now!” Mycroft let the connection snap. He could not afford to panic himself.

He quickly connected with Anthea and asked her, “How long has it been?” The calmness he felt from her was almost scary. “About seven minutes at the most,” she replied. That left Mycroft stunned. “But it feels like I’ve been at this for at least thirty minutes now, maybe more,” he thought to himself. Soon both sides began to lose men, Eisentreibs and Cristveggens alike. Some to mental attacks that would slip through the protective shields being stretched too thin, others to metal scraps flying around that would inevitably slip through the Eisentreibs’ grasps. He found it hard to believe that only a few thousand years ago he had done all this and much more so naturally.

Soon, he found the Eisentreibs under his protection reduced to only two men, Hoid and Niall. The rest he found strewn across the street with bits of metal sticking through their bodies. It was then that he first focussed his attention on the army across the dump yard of metal that marked the no man’s land between the two groups. He could mentally identify only three Eisentreibs- two, discounting Moriarty. The two were protected by one Cristveggen and Moriarty had a separate mental blanket for himself.

Instincts hidden away thousands of years ago suddenly rose up. If Moriarty had been caught up enough in the skirmish to not send for reinforcements so far, and if he had stretched his resources so thin as to get two Cristveggens do the task of one, then Mycroft could possibly thwart the whole attack.

“Switch roles with me,” he cried out through his mental link with Shah, whose leg was still quite sore, he could see. She stepped back into his place. He moved up to replace her, closer to his targets. As he did so, he saw Colfer’s dead body, her nose, eyes and ears bloody, her face a mask of terror. “Probably done by increasing her anxiety to ultra-normal levels. Increasing the heart rate, increasing blood pressure. Tremendous internal bleeding,” he quickly surmised.

He scoped out the Cristveggen protecting the two Eisentreibs and soon found her, quickly assaulting her mental defences and leaping over them, his towering mental presence built up from millennia of practise, making her defences seem useless. He quickly located her mind’s vision centre and blocked it. The temporary blindness scared her terribly. She released the two Eisentreibs from her protection in her panic. “Anthea, finish those two now!” he ordered.

A moment later, the two men were dead. He then proceeded to Storm her anxiety and Suppress whatever was left of her calmness. The resultant panic made her run around like a cat from under a shower. She managed to trip, fall and break her neck. In the meantime, Hoid and Niall had managed to launch a barrage of metallic debris at Moriarty, the only remaining Eisentreib. Under the cover of this barrage, Hoid managed to slip a relatively small, but incredibly fast moving projectile aimed at the one of the three Cristveggens left alive. It took him square in the middle of the eyes and he was dead.

Mycroft could feel Moriarty’s pain, anger and frustration build up steadily over the course of the battle. He had always kept an eye on Moriarty, ensuring that he never caught him truly off guard during this exchange. What he felt now was the same feeling he had got all those millennia ago, fighting this same man on that long, tall building. Mycroft saw that Moriarty had managed to catch hold of all the metal that was thrown at him in the barrage.

“Quickly! Get behind me and crouch, everybody!” Mycroft yelled. He was surprised to see only four people react. The metal barrage that was aimed at Moriarty to distract him now came barrelling towards the five men crouching a few feet away from Moriarty on St. Luke’s Street. Mycroft tapped into his Lucrum cufflinks and deflected the barrage. Again it was not too successful, but this time he had an Eisentreib on either side of him, assisting him. This time, no one died because they could not get back behind him quickly enough.

As soon as they had deflected the wall of metal pieces, Mycroft saw Moriarty and the two other survivors - the man Moriarty referred to as Moran, and a woman - fleeing towards his house.

“Follow me! Now!” he shouted at Anthea. They quickly chased the three fleeing figures, making their way past the dead bodies strewn around the house up to the attic. No sooner had they come that they saw two other men rushing in what looked like a corridor that had appeared in mid-air. It led to a room that was brightly lit and seemed to be made entirely of silver.

Mycroft and Anthea rushed into the corridor.

 

***

 

Hoid, Niall and Shah took a little longer in realising what had just happened. By the time they could grasp what had happened, The Lord and Lady Anthea were already running behind the last three figures, who were now fleeing the battlefield. Hoid could not help but feel proud at his tactics, though he knew that luck, as was the norm in all battles, probably had more to do with why those three were fleeing and not the other way around. “Come now!” he barked at Niall and Shah as he ran behind The Lord.

He ran past the corpse strewn hallways of what was once the beautiful house of his Lord. He saw The Lord and Lady Anthea make their way into the Meeting Room and then he caught a glimpse of Lady Anthea’s boot as they ran up the stairs into a room Hoid had never seen before. Just as soon as he ran up the stairs, he saw them run into what seemed like a big black corridor that seemed to hang in mid-air, not inside or leading through any wall. The corridor seemed to lead to a brilliantly lit room. But almost as soon as they stepped inside the corridor, it began to rapidly shrink. Before he could get to it, the corridor was gone. The only thing he could see now was a crystal that was filled with a grey smoke, identical to the kind that filled a Cristveggen’s Animus crystal when they use it.

 


	15. Chapter 15

John came back to the land of ivory white sands and had almost no time to react. He was still reeling from the shock of what he had just witnessed and he knew himself well enough to deduce what his life would have been after that. He knew how, if something like that had happened to him, he would have either ended his life or let it go astray. The guilt would never let him be happy. It was always be about this one thing – she was dead and he was still alive. He could still see his sister’s scrawny handwriting on the note and regret filled his every breath.

The moment he felt the sand touch his skin and the salty air enter his lungs, he was up on his feet. There was no time for him to prepare himself and he had not expected this. The orange figure that he had left, what seemed like ages ago, was still approaching him, like he had always been here and not even a second had passed since he shot its azure lookalike.

But this time, John didn’t have the heart to reach out for his gun and take aim. He could feel it weighing him down as he took a few steps back and started running in earnest, his feet feeling like lead and sinking in the sands. Running kept getting more difficult and as he looked back, the figure was looming closer, looking like a flame trying to consume him. For a second, John wondered what would happen if he stopped, if he just let go and let it touch him. But his feet won’t stop, no matter what argument his brain supplied. It was survival instinct, perhaps. Or maybe it was something else, something welded with his soul, something that said “Run!”.

John was looking back as he was running and he blindly ran into something. Falling down soundlessly, he scrambled to retrieve his gun and got up as quickly as his shaking legs would allow. What he saw made his stomach fall down and it was surprising that after all he had seen, this should have come as a surprise to him.

It was him, his own self, standing there and smiling. He looked content and happiness radiated from his features. John had probably never seen that look of pure and unadulterated bliss on his face; ever.

“Wh- what are you?” He managed, gun pointed in front of him.

“Put that thing down, John. I am you. You can’t shoot yourself.” Even his voice sounded different. It was so happy that it made John’s toes curl. Given the current scenario, it almost seemed obscene, the smile that his lookalike was sporting. In all this confusion, John had almost forgotten the flaming figure approaching him but even as he looked back, he knew it would be standing transfixed on the spot where he had last seen it. And it was.

“You can’t be me… how can you be me?” John managed, feet firmly anchored to the ground and his steady hands revealing nothing of the tumult inside his mind.

“I am you, or rather, a part of you. I have been here all this time and this satisfaction on my face that you are wondering about, this place is where it comes from. John, you can come here to live. You can stay and get what you deserve, what the real world would never give you. And I know that the experience has not been great so far, but you haven’t even scratched the surface yet. Come walk with me,” and with that, the other John started walking back, past the orange figure and to the spot where whirlpools birthed horrific crystal forms. John followed him cautiously, gun poised in front of him.

When he reached the spot, some fog started lifting from his vision. What had appeared to be mere debris from the figures he had shot before was nothing like what he had thought. It was as if even after falling down, their hands were linked together, forming a branch of sorts. As John connected the line to the place from where the orange figure had rose, he realised that there were still a lot of untouched whirlpools.

“It’s a map. Or a maze. Of what?”  
“You know it.”  
“My life.”

At this, the other John smiled, nodding.

“Your life is made of decisions, John. There were times, multiple times when you had to make certain choices. And you made them but have you ever thought about what would have happened had you taken a different turn? Chosen Chemistry instead of Biology? Taken the bus instead of a cab? For you, these choices ended when you decided past them, but here, they go on. You can see every choice that you didn’t take and you can find out the results. They are right under you and if you focus on them, you can even choose your own life.”

John looked at the ground, not knowing what to think about this sudden development. But it did make sense. If he was true to himself, the moment he had read the note from Harry, he had been expecting something like this to happen. Not exactly like this, but something similar.

“I just want to get out of here. I don’t… I don’t want to ruin more lives, or kill anyone inadvertently. Please,” he knew how broken he sounded, and how deranged. Pleading to himself like that. But he _was_ broken and maybe, even deranged. How else could he explain all this?

“Oh, but why would you want to get out of here? You can have anything here, everything that you have desired, right under your fingertips, merely a shot away. Let me show you,” and with that, he put his hand inside his pocket, retrieving a similar gun and browsing the various whirlpools that had begun to show sudden activity. The moment his eye settled on one at a far corner, he fired a shot straight at its eye, not waiting for the dome to grow shoulders and other parts.

But unlike before, John didn’t wisp out this time. Instead, the scenery started moulding itself, the sands under his feet solidifying into white marble floors and walls propping themselves up and around him. There, right in front of his eyes, John stood in the house from his first dream. It seemed to be from another life but here, where his mind could play no tricks on him, he knew this was his house. He had lived here for a long time and had been satisfied for a great part.

It was sunny, he could see out from the windows and the TV was on. The other John walked past him and sat himself down on the couch, flipping through the channels. As John watched him, standing at the corner, a woman came out of the kitchen, some flour stuck on her hands, her beautiful dark hair tied in a bun.

“John, would you like something to eat?” She came near him and he pulled her on his lap, as John continued looking at them, something he could have had but never did. She laughed and smacked him on the shoulder, leaving a white palm print but he kissed her deeply and she melted in his embrace.

“I need to stuff the pie,” she muttered, flour-y hands brushing his hair off his face.

“Hmm, okay. I need to tell you something, though. Something important,” he whispered, still not letting her go.

“And what is that?”  
“I love you.”  
“I love you too.” And with a chaste peck, her face glowing, she got up and disappeared into the kitchen, walking past John and not even noticing him there.

The other John got up, beaming, and the walls began to collapse back, the ground already melting into familiar ivory sands.

“You could have that, you know. Or anything else, whatever your heart desired. This world is your own design, you could choose to be happy or immeasurably satisfied or successful or rich or all of these things and more. I don’t even know why you would want to leave a place like this.”

“That wasn’t me,” John whispered and the other John looked up at him, slightly confused.

“You know that wasn’t me because you are me, or some part of me, at least,” he continued. “I lived that life and I was miserable. I wanted to get out. I would have killed myself just to end all the monotony and the constant reminder in my head, telling me how unhappy I was. I liked her, I liked Mary but I never think I loved her. I loved my idea of her, loved the way she looked and behaved inside my head, the way I thought I should feel about her and she should for me. But then I lived that life and I realised that I had fallen in love with my version of how a life should be, not how reality was. And it killed me, bit by bit, every single second of my existence. Why would I want to go back to that?”

“Because it is still a million times better than what is waiting for you out there, in your reality. If you really were so sure, you wouldn’t be here, John. You would already be out of here, living your “real” life. Why are you here?” The other John asked and John really had no answer to that. What made him angry was the fact that this part standing in front of him was probably right. He shrugged and the other John continued.

“I’ll tell you why you’re here. You want me to convince you to stay here. You want me to show you why it’s futile to go back to that life where you have nothing but frustration and possibly, danger. And I will. Come with me,” and with that, he took John’s hand, leading him to another part.

This part grew from the roots of John’s previous map. It was a different tree altogether and John’s lookalike led him straight to one of the whirlpools, motioning him to take out his gun and shoot. And John did.

 

***

 

“Sherlock!” John thought his heart might leap out of his chest at the sight of Sherlock, sitting on the couch. He was wearing glasses and had rubber finger gloves on. At the sound of John’s voice, he looked up and smiled at him, motioning him to come closer. There were bags around his eyes and they also looked slightly older, but nonetheless keener.

“Sherlock…” John couldn’t find words to explain what this meant to him, watching Sherlock, older by a decade or so, working on his stuff like nothing had happened.  
  
“Did you get the milk?” The detective asked, not taking his eyes off his work, as was often his way.  
  
“Uhm… yeah,” John realised, to his surprise, that he was holding a bag of groceries. He looked around and this wasn’t 221B, it was someplace else. The room was well lit, Billy was still there at his place on the mantelpiece and so was the eclectic mix of Sherlock’s books, decorating the walls. As he looked out of the window, it dawned on him that he had been here before, on a trip with his family. This was Sussex.

A basset hound with a lazy face trudged down the stairs, nuzzling at John’s knee before settling comfortably under Sherlock’s feet.

“Sherlock, please, just… come here,” John whispered, putting the bag down and offering Sherlock his hand. Sherlock got up slowly, bones creaking a bit and John only just noticed that he was still wearing his favourite dressing gown, although the thing was threadbare now.

John put his arms around his neck, tilting his face up to kiss Sherlock. He had missed this, holding him in his arms, their lazy morning talks, Sherlock’s scent around him, the house smelling of warmth, tea and chemicals, bergamot; but Sherlock put his hand on the side of his face, thumb tracing his lip before he shook his head.

“What? Just kiss me, please,” John heard the desperation in his voice. It would all be okay if Sherlock just kissed him, and John would know what to do. He would know how to stand and not fall for once in so many days. He needed Sherlock to kiss him and anchor him, help him think and make a choice.

“It’s not you, is it?” Sherlock whispered, lips centimetres away from John’s. His voice cracked a bit but he took a deep breath and rested their foreheads together.

“What do you mean? Of course, it’s me. Just kiss me.”  
“I can’t.”  
“Why not?”  
“It’s not you. This…this isn’t you. John…” his voice made John ache, because John knew what he meant. Sherlock always knew what John wanted. Before more words could be exchanged, the other John walked up the stairs.

“What are you doing? What are you two even doing with your lives? Is this not what you wanted? To be together, forever, without any distractions from anyone else? John, think, just think.” All his previous composure and confidence was gone and John could now see how unlike himself this part of him was.

“Well, this is interesting,” was all Sherlock said before he stepped back from John and stood next to the other John, eyes scanning him, drinking in his appearance. John almost smiled at the twinge he felt in his chest when he saw that, Sherlock’s deductions clouding his eyes for a while, mouth firm and eyes squinting a bit as he took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. Only he could see two Johns in his living room and find it interesting and not creepy.

“John, listen to me,” Sherlock finally said, turning around. “This isn’t you. And this isn’t me either. It’s your projection of me, the part of you that looks up to logic for answers. And I am telling you that you don’t need this. You need to get out in the real world, with the real me, with us. Our battles and fights, there is so much to do. I know you, you could never settle for something so flimsy and fictional.”

“Maybe I could,” John shrugged. “I feel safe here, with you and our house. This is all I ever wanted for us. Maybe I can stay… don’t you want me to stay here?”

“Of course, I do, John. Of course, I do. But I also want you to do the right thing. I- Sherlock needs you. He’s probably out there, waiting for you to come back home. And you know what awaits him, you have known the terrors that are on the loose since you touched that crystal and were ejected out of your own nightmare. You have to get out of this because you _want_ to get out of this, not because you need to.”

The other John looked between both of them. “This is so hilarious. Basically, you, John, are going to walk away from the life of your dreams and you, Sherlock, are actually making him see sense in such an absurd and pathetic decision. Why should he go back? You don’t believe him out there, in the “real” world. Maybe, you don’t even need him there, not as much as you need him here.”

“And you know what I don’t and do need better than I do, I suppose,” Sherlock snarled at him.

“Shut up! Shut up, you two! Let me think,” John’s gun was out in his hands, warming his fingers instead of the other way around, and he was pointing it at both of them. The problem was - they were both right. Of course they were. They were him, parts of him. He slowly directed the gun at Sherlock, watching his eyes grow tired. Sherlock shook his head and whispered, “I love you. Don’t do this, John. Please.”

Why couldn’t he stay here? He deserved a happy life, even if it was just a fictional one in his head. And who said this wasn’t real? It seemed real enough. Soon, he would forget everything and he could stay here and grow old with Sherlock. Like he’d always wanted to. Just the two of them and to hell with the rest of the world.

“Yes, yes, John, that’s right. Pull the trigger,” the other John was back to being calm and composed. John felt like every time his faith wavered in that part of him, it became menacing and angry. But now, it heard the arguments in John’s head and felt safer. John pointed the gun away from Sherlock and watched the other John getting flustered. “No, no, what are you doing?! Don’t you want to be happy?”

“Of course, I do. But I love him, I love Sherlock. I need to go back to him. I need him.” John whispered.  
  
“You know how to do it, John. Just do it. I promise it would be okay. I’ll be there, I’ll always be there,” Sherlock replied, he sounded stronger and happier but his eyes were still sad.

“And what about you? What will you do without me? Here, all alone?”

“Oh, I’ll get by. Maybe one of your other projections would come along to give me company. You don’t have to worry about that, there are bigger things in store for you. Out there, with Sherlock. Just do it and stop thinking. Okay?” John nodded at that. He did feel a bit bad still, at leaving Sherlock here, even if it was just a fictional one.

“I’ll be fine, John. Your head isn’t that bad a place,” Sherlock winked at him, making John laugh and flustering the other John further.  
  
“How do you know that if you shoot me, you won’t get back to where you started, to the land of maps?” He snarled, watching the barrel of the gun with something akin to fear in his eyes.  
“I don’t.” John replied, simply.

“You know what to do, John. Don’t you?” Sherlock came closer to him, his hand reaching out to touch his face. “You can do this,” he whispered in his ear.  
“Will you kiss me?”  
“When you wake up, I promise.”

John looked at the two halves of him, so different from each other and yet, inherently the same. They were too broken and empty without each other, too plastic, unreal. With one last look at both of them, he put the barrel against his temple and pulled the trigger.

 

***

 

John saw darkness around him. Utter and complete darkness. He tried to move but couldn’t. _This is it_ , he thought. _This is when I die._

“John?” He heard a voice but he couldn’t make out who it was. Maybe that was because his head was buzzing, like he was having an extremely bad hangover. _Oh, what fresh hell is this?_

“John?” It was Sherlock. Yes. John slowly opened his eyes, only to be blinded by the light. He heard a quick movement around him and heard the curtains swish close. Better.

“Don’t… let me help you. Here,” Sherlock’s arms were around him. John smelled him before he saw him. Yes, it was Sherlock.

“Did it work? Are you real?” John’s voice sounded hoarse and Sherlock passed him some water, wiping his chin with his sleeve as some dribbled down.

“What do you mean? Are you alright?” He kept his voice low.

“How long have I been here?” John asked, swallowing the pill Sherlock handed him with the water.  
“4 days, I think. Well, at least, that’s when you checked in.”  
“Uh? So, did it work? Are you real?” John asked, eyes now adjusting to the room around him. He remembered this room. Yes, he did.

  
“What worked? And of course, I’m real. Why wouldn’t I be?”  
“Kiss me…”  
“What?” Sherlock looked puzzled.

“Will you kiss me? Please?” John repeated, hand clutching the lapels of that familiar coat. Sherlock leaned down, dry lips brushing over John’s and hand cradling the back of his skull. John let out a choked sob. It was over. _It was finally over._ Even though he knew that was far from the truth, at least he was back to where he belonged.

“It’s you. Oh God, it really is you.” John kissed him again, just to make sure.

“Of course, it’s me. Who else would it be?”  
“No one. Absolutely no one. Me waking up from a nightmare and finding you; this is like old times, isn’t it?” John felt lighter as he buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, allowing himself to be hugged and drowning in the scent that was Sherlock and home.

“Would you believe me if I told you that I was a…. God… or something?” Sherlock muttered.  
“There is absolutely nothing I wouldn’t believe in today.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

Mycroft burst into the large room with walls of silver through the portal and Anthea followed him a heartbeat later. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the centre of a circle of people who seemed to be gathering to pass through the portal into his world. Moriarty and the man and woman who survived the battle with him stood a few feet away. Mycroft thought he heard a faint scream from behind him, from inside the portal, as it snapped shut, reforming itself in the TASCOM device lying near their feet.

“Where is Slahi?” Moriarty demanded, looking at Moran. His back was toward Mycroft and Anthea, walking forward with a hasty stride.

“Dead, presumably, my Lord” Moran answered, not taking his eyes off Mycroft and Anthea.

“I saw him die, my Lord,” said the woman, looking at Moriarty. “He was the last to die. I tried to save him but the missile that killed Black distracted me. I thought it was headed for me. I am sorry, my Lord.”

Moriarty followed Moran’s gaze and turned to look at the two new arrivals. For a fleeting moment he seemed to panic. Then a sudden calm came upon him. He smiled slightly at Mycroft and said, “Well this is interesting, isn’t it? Look at you, Mycroft Stepping into my world with your pretty little assistant. What do you think you can achieve? Do you think you can kill me and my army? There are twenty people in this room alone, barring my two veteran leaders here, who are ready to die at my command. This is it, Mycroft. You’ve blundered through that portal thinking you’d outsmart and kill me. But this is where you meet your end. It all falls into place after all.” Moriarty gave a small bark of a laugh. “Finish them, you lot,” he ordered, “Moran, Adler, follow me. We have the rest of our troops to gather and organise. Worlds to conquer, Godhood to claim.”

 _“This is not going to be easy, Anthea,”_ Mycroft warned her telepathically, the moment he looked around and started figuring how to get out of this situation.

 _“Suggestions? Plans? Anything?”_ Anthea responded.

 _“Give me a few moments,”_ Mycroft said.

 _“Tell your brother that,”_ Anthea replied.

By the time Moriarty realised that he had been followed and was making his little speech, Mycroft had a plan. He told Anthea, _“There are a few loopholes in what I’m suggesting, I guess, but we should get out of this alive if our luck holds out.”_

 _“Okay, my Lord. What is it?”_ she asked.

 _“As soon as I finish this message, I will Suppress the defences of all the people in the room, other than those three. You get in and start wreaking havoc with their emotions. Storm up their rebelliousness, their fear and doubt, Suppress their resolve and loyalty and trust towards each other. Especially focus on the last one. Don’t kill them outright. Let them finish each other.”_ Mycroft told her.

As soon as he finished saying this, noting that Moriarty had just left the room, Mycroft tapped into the Animus cufflinks, and fished out a large uncut Animus crystal from within his jacket pocket. He did not use it for this battle, but he knew he would need it pretty soon. He launched himself towards the mind of the man standing in front of him. He was a bit surprised to see that he was faced with a collective mind. A mind that was a conglomerate of all the minds of the fifteen people in the room. This technique offered a tremendous advantage when facing a single attacker or a number of individual attacking minds, for the defences of such a collective mind were significantly greater than those of individual minds.

But to one as powerful and practiced as Mycroft, this simply presented as an easy target. Lower the defences of the collective mind and you’ve left all the individuals utterly vulnerable. Breaking away from the collective mind would require time, which would either mean that the people involved would not do it, or that they would end up wasting time. Both these choices would leave them sitting ducks in a battle.

 _“Hive mind,”_ Mycroft informed Anthea and jumped at their defences, which had taken the form of a tall and impregnable castle. Mycroft’s gigantic form simply crushed it with brute force. Once the defences were dealt with, he felt Anthea’s form slip past him into the collective mind’s loyalty centre. Her form was smaller than his, but quite massive in its own right. It easy shattered the loyalty and unity that held the collective mind together. Once this was broken, they both entered minds of the individual people and Stormed their feelings of fear and distrust of each other. Mycroft also Stormed their self-confidence, to ensure that they would go into a fight with each other, instead of just dithering about it. They also Suppressed the trust these people had in Moriarty.

Mycroft and Anthea quickly got out of the minds and waited and watched as Moriarty’s men launched mental attacks on each other. Some who were less powerful even resorted to physically fighting each other. In a matter of a few minutes, only one man was left alive. Watching around him, he suddenly realised what had happened.

“Spare me, my Lord,” he whimpered. “Let me leave in peace.”

Mycroft paused to consider it. He figured that this man would probably be useless to either side in the battle. He was about to let him go when the man suddenly dropped down and started writhing in pain. In a few short moments, he was dead. Mycroft turned to Anthea and said, “That was unnecessary.”

“On the contrary, my Lord,” she replied, “he was the best of this lot, obviously. What if he stabbed us in our backs whilst we would be dealing with the others? It would be too dangerous. He had to die. I’m sorry, my Lord. I only wish to ensure our survival.”

Mycroft considered what she said. After a small moment, he nodded in agreement. “All right then, Anthea,” he said, “Moriarty said something about gathering an army. And if what I think is correct, then this entire room is made of Lucrum. Not a really safe place when battling the best Eisentreib there ever was.”

Mycroft picked up a few bits of Lucrum that were scattered around the room from the fighting, mostly chunks of metal, and finally picked up a small coin that had fallen out of a dead man’s pocket. He launched it with all his might, using a Lucrum-assisted push, toward a glass window. It was going at a high enough velocity to shatter the glass. It continued to zip away out of the broken window, but Mycroft soon dragged it back and let it fall towards the ground near the foot of the building. He motioned Anthea to come over. He held her in one arm and clutched a mid-sized piece of Lucrum in the other fist.

“Hold on tight, Anthea,” he warned her. He mentally felt for the coin. It was still dropping toward the ground. He pushed on it with their combined weight and jumped out of the open window. The force of the weight of two humans coupled with the force of gravity meant that the coin hit the ground almost 3 to 4 seconds before it would have. The moment it hit the ground, Mycroft and Anthea, who were falling toward the ground at nearly 300kmph, were suddenly pushed upwards; their combined weight acting against the weight of the Earth through the coin causing them to jerk up, like a skydiver opening a parachute. In a few moments, Mycroft landed them safely on the ground.

“Now to go looking for Moriarty…”

 

***

 

Sherlock and John got out of their cab a few metres away from 18, St. Luke’s Street. The cab driver simply stopped the car and stared at the mass of dead bodies in front of him.

“Sherlock what is this?” John asked, sounding part scared and part thoroughly disoriented. He was still unsure whether this was a dream or not.

“Dead bodies, John,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. “We must find Mycroft. We don’t have a lot of time. I don’t like the feeling I’m getting.”

John did not know what to say to that. So he just followed Sherlock onwards. The door was open, and inside were even more dead bodies. He could not understand who or what could cause so much chaos and destruction. Then he suddenly remembered his dreams where he had seen Mycroft Holmes and James Moriarty standing on top of buildings and leading armies and killing people around them.

“It’s him, isn’t it?” John asked Sherlock as they climbed up the stairs leading up to the bedroom John had seen, “It’s that man from the photo in your box. It’s James Moriarty. He’s here.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock replied, “but the question that is more important is…” His voice trailed off as he suddenly noticed the flight of stairs.

They made their way into the large study and saw no one around. Climbing up the stairs, they stepped into the attic and saw a man and a woman, looking terribly tired and confused. The man was talking to the woman, telling her to do something. “-in touch with all our troops everywhere. I know it’s difficult for you, given your loss and current situation, Lady Shah. But I have no choice. We need all our forces here as soon as possible, in order to prepare for any eventuality.”

He looked up at Sherlock and John as they entered the room, surprise written on his face. The woman called Shah seemed to be too preoccupied with something to notice their arrival.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock informed him.

“Ah yes! I should have known. I am sorry I didn’t see you earlier, Doctor Watson. Yes, Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson,” smiled the man.

Now it was their turn to give him a quizzical look.

“My name is Hoid. Hoid Stormwind, or Albert West, as the people in your world know me. I work for your brother, Mycroft. I know of Doctor Watson because of his blog- er, the particular nature of my professional relationship with Mycroft Holmes,” the man said as Sherlock, having no respect to the situation around them, rolled his eyes.

“Yes, I know of my brother’s ‘work’. So, you were one of the spies?” Sherlock inquired.

“No, no,” explained Hoid. “I was just part of the high council. We knew of Doctor Watson and the suspicions your brother had regarding him and his role in the world.”

Sherlock nodded, looking at John. “So, Hoid, is it?” John asked. “Any idea what happened here?”

“I and eighteen other people working for Lord Mycroft were summoned here by Lady Anthea. We were told that there had been an attack and our help was necessary. So, we came. We found the street flocked with men who seemed to be intent on holding it off against us. I don’t know exactly who we were fighting, but Lord Mycroft said that the men were intent on capturing all our worlds, the worlds Lord Mycroft rules over. He said that this was only an advance force and that the main army was on its way at any moment.

“So we arranged ourselves into formation and quickly engaged with the enemy. As luck would have it, using Lord Mycroft’s and Lady Anthea’s tremendous powers, we overpowered their force and beat them back. In the end, there were only three people left from their force. One was an Eisentreib whose prowess was such as I have _never_ seen in my whole life and believe me, I have had a long one. The other two were Cristveggens. They ran back into the house and Lord Mycroft and Lady Anthea followed them. There was a corridor, a portal of some sorts, I think, that led into a shiny room somewhere. There was one other survivor from our side, a man called Niall. An Eisentreib like me. He tried to follow them through the portal but it suddenly snapped shut on itself. I don’t know what happened of him, but I know for a fact that Lord Mycroft and Lady Anthea made it through to the other side.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock nodded at this. “How long ago did all this happen?”

“The portal shut in on itself about half an hour ago,” Hoid replied.

Sherlock looked at John. “That was about the time I woke up,” John said. “This portal thing has something to do with me, hasn’t it?” That was the only bit he had understood in that entire conversation.

Sherlock nodded. He turned to Hoid and said, “If we manage to open the portal again, and this is somewhat of a long shot, do you think you can enter the portal and try to help Mycroft and Anthea?”

“That all depends on what Lady Shah here has to offer,” Hoid replied,

The woman who was silent all this while looked up at Sherlock and said, “I got in touch with around a hundred of our people from all across the worlds. I asked them to get here as soon as possible. They are dropping all their tasks and are getting here. We will have a mix of Eisentreibs and Cristeveggens in our army once they get here.”

“Well then, in that case, if the portal can be opened then we can definitely storm in and stage a proper rescue for Lord Mycroft and Lady Anthea,” Hoid promptly said.

John thought for a long time. The process would be quite taxing upon him. But thinking back on the death and destruction he had witnessed in the house and the street below and from his past nightmares, John decided that he would try his best to do whatever was needed to help their cause and get Mycroft and Anthea out of whatever danger they might be in.

“Well,” John shrugged, “I’ll do whatever I can.”

 

***

 

Mycroft and Anthea scanned the building with their minds, trying to find where Moriarty and his aides were. Once they had located them, they flew up to the seventy fifth floor using the coin again.

 _“I’ll split them up. I’ll deal with James, you take care of whoever is left,”_ Mycroft told Anthea. She nodded. As soon as they were in front of the floor where they detected Moriarty, Mycroft pulled on a large metal lamp and broke the glass. He then used the metal frame of the window pane and pulled them inside.

Moriarty, Moran and the woman were involved in some pretty serious discussion when Mycroft and Anthea burst into the room. They all looked stunned at the sudden interruption. Before any of them could react, Mycroft, who was still holding on to a piece of Lucrum, quickly focussed his energy on the metal wristwatch on Moriarty’s hand and the metal buckle on his belt. He tapped into the Lucrum bar and pushed on these points. This sent Moriarty reeling back. He crashed into Moran on his way to the window. Mycroft braced himself by pushing against the metal window frame. Once he had stabilised himself, he pushed harder and managed to throw Moriarty and Moran both off the building through the window out into the rain that had just started to pour.

He released his Willed push on the window frame as soon as Moriarty and Moran vanished from view. He turned toward Anthea and shouted, “I’ll deal with those two. You take care of this one.” He then shot off through the broken window through which Moriarty and Moran had just fallen by pushing against the window frame behind him.

Mycroft was soon in a free fall, reaching terminal velocity. His coat was flapping in the wind behind him whilst the rain poured out of the clouds above, hard and fast. The lights were slowly coming on around him. The city and this world was completely and utterly oblivious to the chaos that was about to be wreaked upon its inhabitants. Suddenly, Mycroft spotted a dark form streaking up towards him.

He saw Moriarty darting up through the rain, ready to strike at Mycroft the moment they met. Since Mycroft was heavier than Moriarty, he decided to pull Moriarty up towards himself. He straightened his body quickly, positioning his feet toward Moriarty and tried to pull him up by the belt buckle. But when he felt for it, he could not find the buckle. Moriarty had probably dropped it off when he and Moran reached the ground.

Mycroft suddenly felt a sharp tug on the piece of Lucrum he was holding in his hand. Moriarty was trying to pull the Lucrum out of Mycroft’s grasp. He braced himself slightly and then shot himself off away from the building, which he now realised was the Shard. He reached out for one of the metal beams in the structure behind him and pushed off against it, looking around for a safe place to land.

 

***

 

Hoid looked on as the last of his soldiers quickly walked out of the portal. It had taken his Cristveggen almost one and a half hours to get the portal to be large enough for their troops to pass through. Almost on cue, as soon as his last man stumbled out of the portal, it collapsed. Hoid turned toward Doctor Watson and Sherlock Holmes. The latter held the Doctor firmly by the shoulder as he slumped down, quite obviously unconscious from the strain of having opened the portal twice in such a short interval.

He overheard Sherlock Holmes whispering quietly to the Doctor, “You did well, John. You did really well. All of Mycroft’s men are through the portal, all thanks to you. You should rest now.” It seemed to Hoid that those words of comfort were meant as much for Sherlock as they were for John who probably couldn’t hear them.

He placed an arm on Sherlock Holmes’ shoulder. “My Lord, this is where the messy bit begins.”

“Don’t call me that. And what do you mean?” Hoid was a bit taken aback at the brisk tone but he continued.

“We will be attacking anyone and everyone we see. Our troops will be deployed in platoons of four soldiers, two Cristveggens and two Eisentreibs. Anyone they encounter in the building who has the mental signature of an Eisentreib or Cristveggen will be engaged in battle. We will find Lord Mycroft and Lady Anthea and bring them back here. But I must ask you two to leave this building immediately. This is going to be a battle zone. Non-combatants are safest as far away from the battle zones as possible. Get away quickly. We will find you and Doctor Watson when we are ready to re-enter the portal.”

Sherlock nodded at that, without looking up. “Just let John rest for a bit. Let him catch his breath. We’ll move out of danger then,” he said.

Hoid wanted them to be gone from the building that very instant but before he could say anything, he found his mind being attacked by an enemy Cristveggen. The battle had begun. His army had formed itself into platoons as he had ordered them before entering the portal. They were each battling enemy platoons all over the room. Hoid joined his group of men and started battling the Cristveggens who had attacked him.

“Get out now, my Lord,” Hoid shouted before moving away from Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, debris and fire raining around them the moment he left.

 

***

 

Mycroft soared away from the Shard in a long arc. This allowed him to position his feet properly and he aimed to land on a short building about two blocks away from the Shard. But before he could do so, he felt an object whizz past his head. He was using the Lucrum bar so he could see the tiny metal object shining brightly as it went ahead. He turned around to see Moriarty bearing down on him.

“Get out of my world,” Moriarty shouted over the rain and the sound of life a couple of hundred feet below them.

Mycroft used a lamp-post to shoot himself back into the air, farther away from the houses and buildings below. The lamp-post creaked and bent slightly at the base from the sudden and slightly misaligned Willed push. He looked up to see Moriarty sending forth another barrage of metal towards him. The let the missiles come towards him and then, at the very last moment, he split them apart around his body. “ _How is he doing that? How is he Willing objects around without any Lucrum on him?_ ” Mycroft thought to himself.

He then realised that Moriarty had probably done with Lucrum what Mycroft had achieved with Animus. Practising with these minerals for millennia had made them so adept and skilled at using them that they did not need to maintain physical contact with their respective minerals. Mycroft could tap into an Animus crystal even if it was over a hundred feet away. The hold was tenuous, and hence, the resultant effect was not quite powerful enough, but in combat situations, this trick was clearly handy.

Mycroft let himself fall down a little, and spotted the jewellers’ shop that was near his house on St. Luke’s Street. As soon as he was within pulling distance, he tapped into the bar of Lucrum and pulled at various jewellery items that he saw in the windows and inside the shop. In his world, this particular jeweller was known for their Lucrum and Animus based art. So, Mycroft guessed that it would not be too different in this world, because he had modelled his world as close to the one his father ruled and Moriarty had done nothing consciously to change how his own world was developing. Sure enough, Mycroft grabbed at Lucrum necklaces (called Platinum in this world) with Animus pendants and other similar jewels.

He stuffed his pockets with the jewels and tapped into the Lucrum bar he still held in his hand, although by now it was almost spent, for he could not extract as much energy out of a Lucrum source as Moriarty could. He shot off into the air, causing a car roof on the street below to dent nastily.

“Get out of here,” Moriarty shouted again, catching up with Mycroft.

“No,” Mycroft yelled back, “You came into my world and wreaked havoc. I thought that maybe, after all these years, you had finally found contentment. You had finally become satisfied with being God in this world. But your greed cost many people their lives today, James. Both yours and mine. They need not have died. I am sick of you and your childish tantrums and fits of rage. This is it! I’m finishing this once and for all.”

“There can be only one _true_ God ruling over all the worlds,” Moriarty shouted, aiming a set of nails he picked up when passing over a hardware shop at Mycroft.

“Agreed,” yelled Mycroft, turning the nails away with a small mental flick, “And that God shall be me. I will finish your story here, today.”

Moriarty cackled, “Ambition does not suit you, brother! Besides, how does this ambition keep you different from me? I want to kill my opponent and rule over all worlds, and now, so do you.”

Mycroft tapped into the bar of Lucrum for the last time, using the energy to rip out a traffic signal from a hundred feet below them and hurl it at Moriarty.

“Philosophy,” Mycroft grunted with the effort of manipulating such a heavy piece of metal, “doesn’t suit you, James. For now, I just don’t want to die. And this battle has either of our deaths written in it, of that I’m sure. So, I have to kill you. The rest, we shall see later.”

Moriarty flicked the traffic signal aside with casual ease. Mycroft decided that he was not going to be able to beat Moriarty using Lucrum. So, in order to level the playing field, he decided to use his Cristveggen skills against Moriarty’s Eisentreib powers.

They spent the next half hour flying a few hundred feet over London, using metal objects like street lights, traffic signals, cars, window panes, balcony railings and other things to keep themselves airborne. Moriarty kept flinging things at Mycroft which Mycroft kept dodging, sometimes narrowly.

Mycroft, on his part, kept a constant barrage on Moriarty’s mental defences. He penetrated them quite a few times, but before he could do any permanent damage, he would be distracted by a metal object flying his way. Moriarty, in turn, could not manage to lock on to his quarry because Mycroft kept constantly disrupting his thought chain by attacking his mind.

Finally, as Mycroft began to run low on Lucrum, he decided to take the fight back toward the Shard. He hoped to somehow use the man, Moran, to some advantage. He tried to get in touch with Anthea through their mental link, but for some reason he could not find her. He was constantly under attack by Moriarty. Moriarty did not seem to care for the destruction he was causing. He had begun to use bigger and bigger objects to try and get Mycroft. The last thing he had sent hurling at him was a car door, ripped from a vehicle standing below.

Mycroft led Moriarty back to the Shard. When he was a few blocks away, he tried to get in touch with Anthea. “I’ll probably need all the help I can get,” he thought to himself. Now that he was close enough to get in touch with her despite the constant disturbance caused by his fight, he found that she was still engaged in fighting her battle. He chose not to disturb her but kept their connection active, so that he could summon her as soon as she was done.

He landed on the London Bridge Street, in front of the Shard. Moriarty landed with a sharp crash on a car parked a few metres away from Mycroft. Moran had come running toward them from inside the Shard.

“Where are the troops?” Moriarty barked, his mad dark eyes fixed on Mycroft.

“They’re inside, my Lord,” Moran replied.

“Then get them out,” Moriarty ordered.

“But they are engaging enemy forces, Sire,” Moran said.

Moriarty looked baffled. He turned toward Moran and back at Mycroft. Mycroft was just as shocked. He did not know what was going on. He could only assume that the ‘enemy forces’ being referred to here were his own people. But he did not understand how they could be here, for the portal collapsed behind them.

Suddenly Moriarty yelled, “All right then, Mycroft! This is it. All your soldiers are in there battling my forces. I’ll just collapse this whole building. It’s made entirely of Lucrum, you know. If I decide to tap into it entirely, the energy storm it would create inside me would be strong enough and large enough to engulf both of us. So let’s finish this then, like you said.”

Mycroft shivered at the thought. There had been far too many deaths already. Not only had people in his own world perished, but Mycroft was sure that the deaths in Moriarty’s world were exceedingly large in number too. He had to do everything he could to minimise casualties. He immediately launched a barrage of mental attacks on all possible centres of Moriarty’s mind using his own Animus and tapping into Animus that he sensed inside the Shard, possibly Moriarty’s reserves for his troops.

He tried to get in touch with Anthea, he wanted her out of the tower as soon as possible. He mind was too mixed up in her battle and he could not get her precise location to jump in and get her out. He desperately tried getting his message across. He felt her mind pulse with the thrill of battle and then, almost instantly, he felt nothing. He looked up at the tower, almost expecting her to come flying out, proving his worst fears wrong. But nothing happened.

He turned towards Moriarty, enraged and ready to throw everything he had at this man whose greed had taken away all of his best people from him. Behind Moriarty, he saw Moran look disturbed and worried. He was looking intently at his Lord, probably using their mental link to converse silently with him, Mycroft figured.

“All right, go on in,” Moriarty shouted at Moran, exasperated. “And see to it that she’s finished. I want no one left alive at the end of this. I’m taking down the Shard in a few moments. Get out if you can.”

“But, my Lord,” Moran said, sounding disheartened, “Our men are in there. They will all perish. Please, my Lord, don’t do this. We can fight them back into their world.”

Moriarty was about to shout a stern reply at Moran’s comment, but Mycroft chose that moment to launch a series of powerful assaults on Moriarty’s mind. For a moment, Mycroft felt as if, for once, he could get inside Moriarty’s defences, for he was distracted by Moran for just a heartbeat more than was safe for him. But Moriarty lashed out against Mycroft’s mental assault savagely, beating him back. Mycroft was not used to fighting someone whose mental presence was at least comparable to his own, and was not a mere insignificant dwarf in his comparison. For a moment, he reeled from the blow. He recovered just soon enough to see Moriarty push a whole car at him. He braced himself against three lamp posts and five cars before using a sharp Lucrum assisted push aimed at the heart of the car. It was launched straight towards Moriarty who casually flicked it away, making it land at Moran’s feet.

Moran looked up at Moriarty, his face utterly shocked. He seemed confused and appalled by what he was seeing. Without saying a word, Moran ran up into the Shard.

 

***

 

As soon as Mycroft Holmes jumped out of the broken window behind Moriarty and Moran, Anthea began attacking the woman standing in front of her. Although she looked stunned by the dramatic entry and stunning exit choreographed by Mycroft Holmes, when Anthea attacked her, she lost little time fighting back.

As soon as they started testing each other’s defences, it became clear to Anthea that this battle was going to take some time. Luckily for her, she had chosen her biggest Animus crystal pendant and large Animus crystal earrings. In addition to these sources of Animus, she carried with her five mid-sized uncut Animus crystals in a hidden pocket in her jacket. Although a fight between two Cristveggens involved almost no physical movement, combatants usually used sudden physical actions to distract one another and gain the upper hand. While most people threw objects at each other, or made sudden physical movements, sometimes resorting to physical violence, almost nothing could have prepared Anthea for what followed.

Barely five minutes into the fight, just as Anthea was preparing to launch herself headfirst into a possible fistfight with her adversary, she checked her jump. For the woman had quite smoothly and swiftly drawn out a Heckler and Koch P8 from a trouser pocket. Anthea saw the pistol and reacted in just the right amount of time, for her opponent immediately fired a shot at where Anthea stood, barely a millisecond before. Her attacks grew bolder after that and Anthea had some difficulty parrying her off. She hid behind a column and drew her own Sig Sauer P226R from her shoulder holster. She did not usually use it but carried the gun and three magazines for an emergency, like this one.

Anthea too began firing at her, jumping out from behind the column. She did not aim to kill her by the bullets, but only shot so that they narrowly missed her. Anthea wanted the satisfaction of killing a foe this talented the way she loved - by attacking her memory centres.

They began their battle once again, in full earnest. Every time Anthea felt that she had slipped past the woman’s defences, she threw her out of her mind in one swift and ruthless motion. Anthea tried to lure her time and time again by letting her inside her own mind just a little bit, wishing that the seemingly small gap in her defences would entice her opponent into abandoning her defences and rushing for an all-out attack. But, like Anthea, her attacks were always too measured and controlled. Neither of them was willing to take the risk.

After almost half an hour of battling against her, Anthea decided to finally attack her with all that she had. She ripped out the stitches lining the inside of her jacket and drew out the five uncut Animus crystals from within the concealed pocket. She immediately focussed her entire attention on attacking her foe. Although this left her mind completely vulnerable, she was tired of prolonging the battle. She thrust at her opponent’s mind with all her might. But this time she found no defences to hold her back.

With an alarm she realised that her adversary had also chosen this precise moment to launch a grand attack on Anthea’s mind, leaving her own mind completely undefended. Anthea thought for a moment about rushing back insider her own mind to defend herself, but she was growing steadily tired. She decided that she would go on with her attack and finish this battle off once and for all, no matter what the end result was.

She reached deep inside the woman’s mind. Anthea saw a lot of the woman’s memories on her way to where she wanted to go. Her name was Irene Adler. A German-born con artist, she was particularly famous in the Hamburg underground when one day she fell afoul of the wrong kind of men and was hauled into police custody. That was when she first met Sebastian Moran’s men. She was a Memory Cleaner of almost unparalleled skill and prowess. She had met no one who could better her Memory Cleaning skills. Anthea felt a strange sense of satisfaction and pride at having met one of her own kin, in a manner of speaking. One whose might was so great, and yet who she was about to be defeat. She saw more memories, passing like a flood past her. Since she was met with no resistance on the way inside this mind, she zipped past small and insignificant memories. She was making her way to the parts of the mind that held the memories for seemingly involuntary actions. She reached her destination soon enough.

It was a large drum that was beating with a constant cadence. This was the centre that controlled the action of a person’s heart beating. Anthea wasted no time. She had already chosen what she wanted to do. She promptly reached up to the drum and ripped at the skin, stopping the rhythmic beating. Anthea had reached into Irene Adler’ mind and stopped her heart from beating. Her death would be almost instant.

The moment it happened, Anthea felt sheer jubilation. She had bested possibly the only other Memory Cleaner who could come even close to what she was. She felt sheer elation. For a fleeting moment, she felt two simultaneous touches. The first was that of her Lord, Mycroft Holmes, wanting to get in touch with her via their mental link. The second was an unknown touch on a part of Anthea’s mind that she did not even know existed.

And then, all of her mind and memories went blank.

 

***

 

Irene was tired of this long and drawn-out fight. She was running out of bullets and they both seemed to be just too good to be taken in by any of each other’s ploys. Neither of them was willing to commit themselves to a full-fledged attack, although both of them clearly knew, by now, that that was the only option left.

She saw the woman draw out five Animus crystals from her jacket pocket. Ironically, they had both chosen the exact same instant in time to attack each other with all that they had. Irene had no choice now but to go ahead and finish off what she had started out to do, and hope that she killed her target before she got killed herself.

She ran through the memories of the woman. She was called Anthea Trent. She was a Memory Cleaner, just like Irene was. She first came to Mycroft Holmes’ attention when he interviewed her for a job at the British government. He found it odd that her University professors would recommend her as strongly as they did, despite the fact that her grades and marks were not exactly phenomenal. Mycroft offered her a deal whereby he would get to reign in her skills and use them for his benefit and she would be made in charge of his entire operations all across his worlds. Irene zipped past many other memories- broken relationships, torrid school life, disturbed relationships with both parents. Soon, Irene reached a cold and dark room, of sorts. It was utterly dark, save for one light. There was a small lamp flickering in the dark. Beside the lamp, seemingly set on a table, was a book. This was the most inaccessible place in any human mind and Adler had never reached this place before in her life. She only got here because she had reared up and made such a powerful charge, and the fact that Anthea Trent’s defences were completely down. She looked upon the sight in front of her with awe.

This was the human mind’s representation of how it stored and accessed all its memories, except the ones crucial for survival. So apart from the involuntary actions and the action of eating and processing food, all other memories were linked to this one place. This place was the memory of how the mind stored and used memories. This memory was what made humans human.

Irene was completely stunned at having made this far into a person’s mind. Anthea seemed to be a very powerful Memory Cleaner. To have reached so far into a Memory Cleaner’s mind, especially one this powerful, was a huge achievement for Irene. She suddenly felt her heart stop beating. She realised that while she was waiting around soaking in the importance and significance of this moment, her adversary had reached in her own unprotected mind and wiped out the involuntary memory of her heartbeat.

Without wasting any time, for she had precious little of it, Irene grabbed the flickering lamp and burned the book containing all the memories. And then, quite suddenly, all was black around her.

 

***

 

Moran ran back up the Shard. He had to save all the men that he could. All these years, for thousands of years now, Moran had served his Lord, James Moriarty, with utter and complete loyalty, faith and obedience. He managed the working of his entire world while the Lord worked away on the plan to unify all the worlds under one master. The plan was too complex for his understanding, he was told. And he said nothing.  It was important that the plan be executed in the exact and precise way it was thought out, for any human interference would render it useless, he was told. And he said nothing. But now he saw the plan unravelling and the madness behind it all was clear to him.

There was no grand scheme. There was going to be no peace under a united reign. This was no Godly matter of righteousness. This was plain and simple politics. The driving force behind those two beings fighting for each other’s lives and putting other people’s lives at stake was the same as the force that drove petty human kings to war against each other. It was nothing but greed and hunger for more power. James Moriarty had often said that he was not ‘God’ in the truest sense of the word, the way humans perceived it, but that, one day he could become it, and much more. Moran had believed him. But today he had seen James Moriarty in all his true colours. And in Moran’s opinion, James Moriarty would be flattering himself if he even called himself human.

Moran strode up the stairs shouting at the top of his voice, “Run! Run! Everybody run out of this building! Run!” He was shouting this at anyone and everyone he met. He was pushing and shoving battling foes toward the exits. He was no God, but he wanted to make sure that everyone was safe and got out alive at the end of all this. “There was enough blood on my hands as it is,” he thought to himself.

He ran all the way up to the fifteenth floor where he suddenly came face-to-face with the man who seemed to be the leader of this crew. Moran raised his hands over his head. He had attacked the same man once earlier that evening. When he and his men had first chanced upon this man, another man and John Watson stumbled into the throne room. Luckily for Moran, all his troops had assembled in the Shard on the seventy-third floor. He had soon organised them into proper battle formations and attack groups and launched a full frontal attack on this man’s troops. He had chosen this man to be his personal target because he seemed to be the leader.

Moran smiled, partly to reassure the man that he meant no harm and partly from the irony that their situation placed them in.

“I come in peace, good man,” Moran shouted over the cries and groans of the battles surrounding them.

The man grunted, unconvinced. “What do you want, Cristveggen?”

“My name is Sebastian Moran. I used to work for James Moriarty,” Moran offered.

“I’m called Hoid, Hoid Stormwind. Who is this Moriarty?” the man asked, irritated at the interruption Moran was causing.

“The Lord and God of this world.”

“Oh, okay. Then give me one good reason not to blow your brains out using this piece of metal,” Hoid menacingly drew out a small, sharp piece of iron and began to play with it.

“Because, like I said, I _used_ to work for him,” Moran tried to sound cool and composed. “Not anymore.”

“Be that as it may,” Hoid sounded sceptical, “What do you want of me?”

“I want you to help me get everyone out of here.”

“And why would that be?”

“Because both our Gods have gone utterly berserk. Yes, my God and master and yours too. They are not stopping their fight. They want to finish each other off tonight at any and all costs.”

“That’s not what Lord Mycroft is like!”

“I know. Trust me, I know. But that’s exactly what he is doing down there. They are refusing to back down from their positions. Moriarty plans to use the Lucrum used to make this building, all the metalwork in this structure is entirely made of Lucrum, to create an energy storm so intense that it would engulf and wipe them both off. If he does that then the Lucrum holding this place up would lose all its structural strength and the whole place would collapse like a deck of cards, killing everyone inside. So please help me. I’m trying to get as many people out of harm’s way as I can. Please, listen to me,” Moran almost pleaded to Hoid.

Hoid seemed to take ages in deciding whether or not this was a trick being played on him and his soldiers. After almost an eternity, Hoid nodded. “You deal with your people, I’ll get mine out of the way.”

Moran nodded. Then both he and Hoid climbed up the eighty-seven floors, shouting at people wherever they found any, to run outside. They had to get into arguments with some of their own troops, but Moran and Hoid soon managed to get everyone on their way out of the Shard. At last, on the eighty-seventh floor, they saw two lonely figures.

“That’s Lord Sherlock and Doctor Watson,” Hoid informed Moran. “I’ll talk to them.”

“No, Hoid,” Moran said, “I think you ought to run away yourself. Check all the floors on your way down. I’ll get these two with me.”

Hoid looked at Moran for a long moment, giving him a hard glare. Then he nodded. “Be quick about it, Moran,” he yelled before leaving.

At the sound, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson looked up. Moran approached them, arms raised, “I come in peace,” he said. As soon as he was close enough to properly make out, John Watson almost froze in shock, clutching onto Sherlock’s arm.

“It’s him, Sherlock! That’s the man I saw in one of my visions!”

“Please,” Moran said tiredly, “I come in peace. Please trust me. We must get out of this place. James Moriarty is about to bring it crashing down on all our heads. You must trust me. Please.”

 

***

 

On his way down, on the fifty-third floor, Hoid saw a lone woman. She was wearing a suit and had dark hair. She simply stood staring out of a broken window, standing at the very edge of the window pane, another woman lying dead at her feet.

Hoid rushed towards her, shouting “Lady, please get out of here.” She paid him no heed. It was almost as if she was deaf. He kept shouting the same phrase as he neared her. He touched her shoulder and turned her around. What he saw dealt him a horrible body blow. He saw the face of Lady Anthea, her usually intelligent and forever sharp green eyes now seemed like dull, lifeless lakes covered in moss.

Her eyes had glassed over. Her breath was not shallow nor was it racing, but it was not calm either. It was almost completely listless. As if there was no purpose to the breath at all. When he turned her around, she complied like a child being lifted up from the floor. Completely helpless and involuntary. She looked fully and completely dead, save for the fact that she was, in fact, perfectly alive. This was life at its bare minimum. Hoid was completely stunned. He did not know what to do. He simply stood there and watched Lady Anthea stare back at him, not even knowing that she was staring at him. He was shaken back into reality when the whole building began to crumble around him. He jumped off into the night. No sooner had he done that, the whole building collapsed in a gigantic mass of rubble.

“At least, Moran wasn’t lying,” Hoid thought to himself. That was poor consolation for what he had just seen.

 

***

 

No sooner had Moran, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes ran out of the building and hid behind a car, the entire structure came crashing down. Moriarty had not been able to access all the Lucrum. So he could only tap into, and hence weaken, the bottom sections of the building. The heavy upper floors came crashing down as soon as this was done. After the dust had settled, Sherlock, Moran and John got up from behind their car and surveyed the damage.

 

***

 

Sherlock saw the two Gods lying on the ground, their bodies almost completely smashed. He approached Moriarty first, feeling strangely drawn towards the pale form lying in front of him. The face looked the same as it had in the sketches drawn by his grandmother but the eyes were dead, even more than usual. A hint of madness still remained, though, and out of nothing but respect for the great mind, though evil, Sherlock reached out to close those eyes. However, the moment his hand brushed over the lids, the form before him flaked out and dissolved into a pile of ashes, like a Phoenix from a bedtime story Mycroft had once told Sherlock.

Sherlock was confused and more than that, a bit awed at the entire scene and he knew that there was only one person who could answer all the questions bubbling up inside him. And so, he turned around and walked up to the body of his elder brother and simply stood there for almost a minute. Someone gently touched his hand but he had eyes only for the eerily still body of Mycroft Holmes lying at his feet, his face an expressionless mask.

“What now, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, waiting for Mycroft to get up. When he got no reply, he repeated his question. He knew that if he believed it, if he even uttered it to himself, it would be real. And thus, he pressed on, not bothering to wipe the tears that streamed down his face. What was the point of it? It was his body trying to reduce the stress, responding to the sadness he felt. But no one could really understand what he was feeling right now.

Mycroft had been more than just a brother to him. He had been his competitor, his friend and most importantly, his parent. Sherlock felt completely alone and lost. Never in his entire life had he thought about a scenario where he would have to make a new beginning without Mycroft at his side. He felt anger bubble up inside him, anger at everything that had happened that day, the tears refusing to dry up.

“You said you were a God, Mycroft. You showed me my own Godhood. You talked of great things; of how we were destined to be rulers and overseers of these worlds. Mycroft, you _created_ entire worlds. You shaped the lives of millions of people. You said you were immortal, Mycroft. So tell me, what now? How will your immortal self rescue itself from this mangled wreck of a body?” Sherlock’s voice was eerily calm. John stood by his side, staring down at the body.

“Why did you lie? Why did you _always_ lie? About everything. Could you never, even once, utter the damn truth? Was everything a lie? Answer me, Mycroft. I’m waiting.” Sherlock sank down, put his hands on his knees and stared listlessly at his brother’s spent body, waiting for him to get up and answer all his questions.

After almost five minutes of silence, John quietly brushed his hand over his hair and Sherlock looked up at him, scared, lost, alone.

“So, what now, Mr Moran?” It was Hoid’s voice that broke the silence.

“Look around you,” Moran replied. “This was my world. I helped build this. And now the very man who built it has ended up completely destroying all our work. There is nothing left for me but to go about picking the pieces as best as I can.”

He heard a man groan loudly. It was Jìl, caught up in the crashing debris of their once massive and imposing castle. Both of them turned, so agonising was his cry. Moran quickly reached into his Animus reserves, they were quite full. He tapped into his crystal and reached out into the dying man’s mind, moving to his side and taking his hand in his own. There was nothing Moran could find other than pain centres. A million open wounds, each resembling the other. They had all taken the form of the wound Jìl had suffered from the crashing building - a long, sharp metal rod impaling his body through the chest, narrowly missing the heart, it seemed.

“I cannot cure you, Jìl,” Moran apologised. “But I can do my best to lessen the pain.”

Moran reached out across all the pain centres in Jìl’s mind, which was probably all of his mind, by the looks of it, and carefully soothed them all. He eased out the metal rod that impaled the pain centres and held the throbbing wound in place, not allowing the pain to spread.

Jìl’s face immediately reflected the change. He would not live long, for he had lost a lot of blood, but his last moment was to be a painless one. He quietly whispered, “Thank you, my Lord” with his last breath, a smile on his lips.

Moran simply got up and started moving towards any others that would need to be put out of their misery. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Holmes and Watson standing behind him.

“You helped him,” Sherlock said, motioning towards the dead body that was James Moriarty.

“There is nothing I can do for your brother, Sherlock Holmes. But I am truly sorry. He was a great leader and a better God than Moriarty could be.” Moran said, resolutely staring at the ashen remains of his former leader. He took one look at it and then at Sherlock, something connecting in his mind. But now was not the time for theories. Around them, the air was filled with cries and wails of help and Moran wanted to save as many as he could.

“But you can help me.” Sherlock’s voice broke into his thoughts as he was making to leave. “Teach me how to be a God. I am the only one left.”

“Godhood is attained at birth, it can’t be taught,” Moran curtly replied. “If it could, why would we need Gods?”

“I think we’ve both learnt today that even the best of Gods can be fallible,” saying which Sherlock got down on his knees and hoisted Mycroft’s body off the ground. His brother was lighter than he had imagined him to be. When Hoid tried to help him, Sherlock shot him a look that made him stop.

Sometime later, the sun set on the day, leaving them drenched in complete darkness in a brave new world devoid of immortal Gods. Sherlock pulled John close to him and let Moran reach into their heads and put them to sleep.

 

-       The end  -  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dont freaking touch me right now - meow


	17. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We don’t create a fantasy world to escape reality, we create it to be able to stay.”
> 
> —  
> Lynda Barry

Sherlock woke up sweating and cold, the top of his head throbbing in pain. For a second, the streetlight seeping into their bedroom in 221B blinded him. He felt a hand in his hair and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him, the familiar and slightly older eyes of John were staring at him, worried to their viridian depths.

“John?” He sounded hoarse, like he had been screaming in his sleep.  
“Are you okay? What was it?” It was understandable that John would take a nightmare this badly. Two hundred years were not enough time to put things like that behind. Sherlock got up and headed towards the bathroom, turning the shower on in the dark. As cold water seeped him, plastering his hair to his face, he waited. And soon, John followed.

“You said my name…” his voice sounded quiet as he quickly undressed and got under the shower with him.

“What?” Sherlock leaned his head against the chipped tile, marvelling at the way they had replicated 221B in this world that he was only beginning to call home. There were some things he didn’t understand still but, overall, it was still the world he was used to. He was thankful that Mycroft hadn’t put him in some archaic universe like Middle Earth or he would have been lost.

“I heard you in your nightmare, screaming. You screamed my name. What was it?” John whispered, leaning the side of his face against Sherlock’s shoulder, his body still hiding parts of itself from the water.

“John, it’s nothing like that. It was just a stupid dream, nothing more. Stop fretting,” he turned around and kissed him on the forehead. John didn’t look too assured but he didn’t press on. Sherlock scoffed and half laughed at his morose expression. This was blatant emotional blackmail and even though he had been with this man for a little over two centuries, he still couldn’t fight against that expression, especially when it was directed at him.

“Okay, there were two of you,” he started, shaking his head as John widened his eyes and froze. John had told Sherlock everything about those fateful days when he had got stuck in his own mind, the power of the crystal pushing him in until he couldn’t fight it.

“No, it’s not what you’re thinking… this is a bit embarrassing,” Sherlock shrugged but the look on John’s face made him spill the beans.

“There were two of you, two John’s. And…well… oh, it was a sex dream, John!” He finally blurted out. The way John’s expression changed from dubious to downright lecherous had to be a record of some sorts because he started grinning wolfishly, embarrassing Sherlock further.

“Oh dear, imagine though. People worshipping Gods, thinking them to be evolved and what not, and here you are, having porn Oscar worthy dreams,” John threw his head back and laughed hysterically, and Sherlock had to join him. Somewhere, between laughter and showers, John’s hand circled Sherlock’s waist, bringing them closer, his other hand creeping into those wet locks and pulling Sherlock down for a kiss.

“What did you see?” John muttered while working on a love bite on Sherlock’s neck.

“You…God! You were fucking me and you… the other you… had me in his mouth. And both of you were driving me crazy until I came and you cleaned me up with your tongue…John, please!” A God begging should have made John chuckle and stop, but this wasn’t the first time he’d heard Sherlock sound so helpless. And so, he licked down Sherlock’s neck, soothing the bite and giving him a new one on his collar bone. Down, down he went, circling a nipple until Sherlock’s nails were tugging at his hair painfully.

“Maybe, we can manage one of those things now. What do you want, Sherlock?” John was on his knees now, squeezing Sherlock’s arse, nose buried in his groin, the smell of soap and arousal around them. Sherlock groaned, clearly impatient and so, John stuck his tongue out and licked a clean stripe down his erection.

He popped the head in his mouth, tongue circling and dipping inside the slit and Sherlock gasped loudly, his fingers digging in John’s shoulder. “Please, John. Please. Don’t tease me!”

“We could arrange for that you know, someone fucking you and sucking you off at the same time. Would you like that, Sherlock?” A strangled _hnnng_ was all John got at that. He took Sherlock’s hands off his shoulder and put them on his head, taking all of him in at one go.

He started with slow short sucks, licking down his shaft, just the way Sherlock liked it. And then he pulled him out and took him in again, looking up into those lustful mad eyes and playing with the rhythm. With Sherlock, even something as simple as a blowjob was anything but that. He got bored too soon and there had been more than one occasion in the beginning of their relationship when he completely lost his erection the moment he worked out John’s rhythm. And so, even while pleasuring him, John had to be constantly on his toes (or his knees, whatever).

When he hollowed his cheeks and let the head hit the back of his throat, breathing threw his nose and humming, Sherlock threw his head back and moaned out his name.

John squeezed his thigh, nodding, and Sherlock started fucking his mouth in earnest, going slow at first and, when John looked up at him and blinked twice, faster. The sight of Sherlock with his head thrown back, hips jerking softly was still as hot to John as it had been the first time. He came with a choked sob and spilled down John’s throat, John holding him firmly by his waist as his legs refused to support his body. He gently licked the softening and very sensitive head clean.

Drying them both and starting to feel like he was left out, John nestled his erection against the crack of Sherlock’s arse, kissing between his shoulder blades as he pinned him against the wet wall.

“Maybe in a while,” John licked over the bite, “we can take care of the other thing you dreamt about, eh?” Sherlock grinned, nodding and letting himself be dragged out of the bathroom, only to be hit by the cold air. They quickly got under the covers, trying to steal the warmth off each other.

“Do you want my mouth, or my hand?” Sherlock whispered, hand stealing down John’s slightly soft middle and cradling his balls. He rolled them in his hand as John shook his head, “I can wait. And speaking of mouths and hands, this dream of yours…”

“Oh, knock it off, will you?”  
“I’m just saying that there might be a way to arrange that,” John said, stifling a groan as Sherlock’s thumb pressed on his perineum.

“These people haven’t developed cloning yet, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”  
“No, but there are other ways…” John grinned when Sherlock shot him a confused look.

“Moran. I think he might be interested.”  
“Oh, shut up!” Sherlock started kissing him and John knew it was a way to shut him up.

“Oh please, don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. The way he looks at you…”  
“He is my teacher! And he looks at me in a way that says “I don’t know how you’re ever going to be ready to become a fulltime God”,” Sherlock grimaced as John laughed.

“He’s a good man, though,” John said, in all seriousness. And he meant it.

In the two centuries of Godhood being thrust on Sherlock, Moran had been incomparable in his help. He had not only started training Sherlock to make him a Cristveggen good enough to beat Mycroft Holmes, he’d also assumed all the responsibilities of ensuring that nothing went unnoticed in their world. Fortunately, for both of them, he had done this before. There were times when John caught him looking at Sherlock with something akin to pride in his eyes.

They weren’t friends with Moran, neither Sherlock nor John, but he did speak to Harry quite often. When John had invited her to stay with them for a while, she had been a bit reluctant but immediately hit it off with Moran. They would both hang out at the local pub for hours before they retired to bed, Harry and Clara giving their marriage another shot now, thanks to Moran’s sound advice.

“He’s been a bit lost, after his old employer died,” Harry had once confided in John. “But at least training Sherlock to take over Mycroft’s job is something that keeps him going.”

John didn’t realise that during all this, Sherlock had turned around and was rubbing his arse against John’s erection, bringing his hands forward to cup his own surprisingly hard one.

“All right then. Where did you keep the lube?”

After that night, Mrs Hudson finally told John that she was putting a ban on “any noise” between 2 am and 5 am.

 

***

 

Sherlock was sitting on the floor of the terrace, going through some notes Moran had asked him to memorise. That was when he heard a sound, a wheezing and groaning noise that seemed familiar and yet, not quite. When he turned around, he stood face to face with someone he had only seen in pictures.

“Hello, Sherlock. Wow, look at you… all grown up, eh?” The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners like he was genuinely surprised at seeing that his son had become a man.

“You… you’re my father.” It was a statement, uttered without anger or challenge. The man nodded, their similarly observant eyes exchanging curious glances. The air around them was different as they were both sizing each other up, waiting for the other to break the silence. Finally, Sherlock’s father spoke.

“So, the war ended. I’m glad I wasn’t there. How’s John doing?” He asked.  
“How do you know about John?” Sherlock couldn’t help but shrug at his own question the moment it had left his lips and his father smiled good naturedly at him. “He’s fine. Better than expected.”

Sherlock started organising his loose notes again and his father sensed his discomfort.

“The bridge between the two worlds has turned many a brilliant minds into mush, Sherlock. It’s a miracle John even came out of it,” his father said. Sherlock looked up.

“We aren’t in the fictional world anymore. These words aren’t typed by someone in their old laptop and things don’t always work out perfectly in the end. John… well, he’s as fine as he can be.” When his father didn’t make any move to interrupt him, Sherlock continued. “The portal and the final exertion right before the battle affected him in some great way. He doesn’t feel any of it and in the beginning, I didn’t notice anything. But later, he started telling me about how Harry told him stuff about Moran, how Mrs Hudson said that she was done baking pies and wanted to become a librarian. Stuff like that.”

His father gave him a confused look.

“They’re all gone. We left the fictional world and when Mycroft died, the portal was finished. It disappeared. Moran believes that it is still somewhere out there and as long as people continue to dream and write, the world would sustain itself. But there is no way for us to contact it or the people who live there. So, for all intents and purposes, it could be gone and we would never find out.” He sighed.

“But John talks about them like they’re living with us, like he sees them every day. Initially, I would talk to him about it but that only made it worse, both for him and me. Now, well, now I just play along.” The voice that uttered these words was the voice of a tired God, always meant to be a makeshift administrator but never a creator.

His father saw a lot of himself in Sherlock.

“You know why I’m here. You have questions, hundreds of them. I thought it was high time I answered the important ones amongst those. I’m not going to be around for long, Sherlock. I have been running for far too long but now, it’s time to stop.” He looked younger than Sherlock but sounded older than the universe.

“I just want to ask one thing – Jim Moriarty. When I touched him, he sort of… flaked out into ashes. I wouldn’t have thought much about it but I did see Moran’s face when it happened. He looked at his former Lord and me, and I saw him make some connection in his head. No matter how much I pressed on, he never told me what he knew. I hate not knowing… it’s been two centuries. I just- who was Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, frustrated that even now, there were bits about the great battle that didn’t make any sense to him.

The question had clearly pushed some buttons because the calm and jovial man standing in front of him suddenly started fidgeting, like he was trying to find words that didn’t belong to him anymore. Finally, after a few seconds, he asked, “Did you brother ever tell you about my last words to him?” Sherlock shook his head and his father nodded, continuing. “Before I left, I told or rather, prophesised that you two would herald each other’s demise. Have you had any time to think why Mycroft never allowed you to get trained? It wasn’t entirely for the reasons of safety that he did so. He was afraid that having you fully trained might trigger something inside your head and my last words might come true.”

Sherlock was lost because if he was getting this right, it was twisted beyond imagination. For the millionth time in his life, he felt that he had barely known his brother. His father went on.

“The pocket of universe he created to keep you safe, the one with Baker Street and your detective work, had a strong base. Not only did it serve as the headquarters for Mycroft’s work but it also had you, a God in the making. The pull of both your inherent abilities was so strong that multiple alternative universes sprang around your actions. Moriarty was the result of one such universe. He was a future version of you in another reality. When I met him, all those years ago, I felt a pull towards him that I couldn’t account for. I do get attached to the people I travel with, though, and hence, I thought nothing of it at that time. But later, when I realised what he was, there was nothing I could do. The battle had become a thing that even I couldn’t change. Nor could I stay for it. So, I ran until my family and my friends were aeons behind me.”

Sherlock looked at his father and even though he could see the same eyes peering back at him, he knew they were different people. He could never abandon his family like that. But he also knew that imagining himself in that situation was different from being in it. “This is why he… flaked out when I touched him.”

His father looked up and gave him a tired smile. As he made to go away, he seemed to remember something and came back. “I forgot. Where is John? Is he… starting to write his books?” The look on Sherlock’s face was answer enough but it made him chuckle.

“What pen name is he going for?” Something seemed to be tickling him immensely and Sherlock was irked by it.

“He is fixating on “Arthur” but hasn’t finalised it yet.”  
“Tell him to go for “Arthur Conan Doyle”. It … suits him.” And that’s all he said before patting Sherlock’s knee and getting up, rearranging his notes with a queer expression on his face. As he closed the door, Sherlock heard John’s footsteps up the stairs.

As the door to the terrace opened, Sherlock turned around to introduce them but his father had already closed the door behind him.

John looked between the closed door and Sherlock and asked, “What is a police box doing in the middle of our terrace?”

 

-       FINISH  -

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue was written keeping Nicky (amygloriouspond.tumblr.com) and Kristina (bowties-and-cheekbones.tumblr.com) in mind because they're my babies.
> 
> Thank you for reading, if you've managed to come so far. If there is anything you want to ask about the story or want to scream at me for writing tosh or anything really, you can message me at imjohnlocked.tumblr.com


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